“Are you Miss Delia Keller?”

She nodded. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Tucker—Jude Tucker, and I’m here because your father wanted me to come see you.”

Delia could hardly believe her ears. “My father? You know my father? When will he be here? Oh, I knew he’d be back some day!”

A cloud seemed to pass over his face. “He…he’s not coming, Miss Keller. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s dead.”

Delia felt the earth shift beneath her feet and she would have fallen if the stranger hadn’t steadied her. “What…what happened to my father?” she asked.

“He died mining silver out in Nevada. There was a mine collapse….”

“Thank you for coming to tell me about my father’s death, Mr. Tucker.”

“But I didn’t travel all this way just to inform you of his death. I came to bring you something. You’re his only living heir, after all.”

“Heir?”

“Well, I suppose heiress would be the proper word. Your father died a rich man, Miss Keller. And now all his wealth is yours.”

MILLS & BOON

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LAURIE KINGERY

makes her home in central Ohio where she is a “Texan-in-exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for Harlequin Historicals and other publishers, she is an author of sixteen previous books. She was the winner of the 1994 Readers’ Choice Award in the short historical category, and was nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by Romantic Times BOOKreviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, read her e-mails and write her blog on www.lauriekingery.com.

Laurie Kingery
Hill Country Christmas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.

—Psalms 37:4

To the beautiful Hill Country of Texas,

the place my soul feels most at home this side

of Heaven, and to all my relatives in Texas,

especially Aunt Joann.

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

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Llano Crossing, Texas—August 1867

“He was a good man, Miss Delia. He’s certainly in the arms of Jesus now.”

“God rest his soul.”

“God bless you in your time of sorrow, Miss Delia.”

The hillside that had been covered in the golden glory of a Texas spring when Reverend McKinney had begun to fade—primroses and coreopsis, gaillardia and red-centered Indian blanket, punctuated here and there by bluebonnets lingering from the month before—was now, after the summer sun had done its work, sere and brown. It seemed a fitting backdrop for the unrelieved black garments of the figures in the valley who stood around the deep rectangular hole into which a coffin had just been lowered.

Sorrow didn’t begin to name the endless depth of Delia’s grief. Her grandpa had been the only element of stability she had experienced in her eighteen years of life, and now he was gone.

Another voice intruded on her thoughts. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Delia. If you need anything, you have but to let me or any of my family know. Reverend McKinney was a pillar of this community, and we would not want his granddaughter to be in need.”

Under the black brim of her bonnet, Delia Keller raised her eyes to the speaker. “Thank you, Charles. I appreciate it.” If she had hoped for more from the mayor’s son, she made sure her face did not give her away. She didn’t want Charles Ladley’s pity, if that was all she could have from him.

The tight starched neckline of her borrowed bombazine mourning dress threatened to choke her.

Oh, Heavenly Father, what am I to do now?

A few of the ladies began to drift away from the gravestones toward the makeshift tables laden with covered baskets that were spread out under the live oak trees between the small church and the cemetery. Soon, Delia knew, they would have a hearty dinner spread out for those who had attended the funeral—ham and fried chicken, black-eyed peas, freshly baked biscuits, chocolate cake and pecan pralines. There would be pitchers of lemonade and cold tea. As the chief mourner, Delia would be expected to partake, sample and praise each lady’s culinary offering.

The thought of putting so much as a crumb in her mouth made nausea roil in her stomach. The noon heat beat down on her head through her bonnet. She couldn’t do it.

She’d thought everyone had left her side and she was alone at the grave site, but now Delia felt a gentle touch on her wrist. “Miss Keller, are you all right?”

It was Reverend Calhoun from Mason, who had kindly come to conduct the funeral, since Llano Crossing was now preacherless.

She looked away from the concern in his old eyes, afraid she would dissolve into tears but knowing it was safe to confide in him.

“What am I going to do, Reverend Calhoun? My whole life was taking care of my grandpa.”

He gave her an understanding smile. “You needn’t decide that today, my dear,” he reminded her. “You’ve suffered a loss, a grievous loss, and it’ll take a while to find your feet. But the Lord will show you a way.”

Delia blinked, wiping away a tear that managed to escape from her eyes. She had no patience with platitudes this morning. “The town will be finding a new preacher, and he’ll need to live in the parsonage—where am I to go? I have no money, no employment…” No beau, she added to herself. She wouldn’t be going to live in the beautiful white house Charles Ladley would build someday for his bride, and the worst thing was, she didn’t even know why not.

“The Lord will reveal all that to you, Miss Keller,” the preacher assured her, confidence mingled with compassion in his deep, resonant voice, “in the fullness of time. He takes care of the birds in the air and the lilies of the field, you know. Now come—it looks as if the good ladies of Llano Crossing have prepared a nice meal for you.” Nodding toward the tables under the trees, he said, “Why don’t we—”

“I…I don’t think I can stay for it,” she said quickly, keeping her gaze on the toes of her high-button boots, but away from the grave. “I just…I just want to go back to the parsonage and lie down.” While I still can lie down there—and try to imagine what I’m going to do.

“Nonsense, child, you need to put some food in your stomach, and take heart from the others who loved Reverend McKinney,” urged his wife, a comfortable-looking gray-haired woman who had returned to her husband’s side. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten a bite, I’m sure.”

Delia did not want to argue with her, and fortunately the visiting preacher made it unnecessary.

“Mrs. Calhoun, can’t you see the girl is pale as a wilted primrose? I’m sure she knows what’s best for her. There’s bound to be plenty of food left, and we can bring her a plateful to tempt her appetite after she’s had a nap. Miss Delia, we’ll see you later,” Reverend Calhoun said with finality. A look passed between husband and wife.

“All right, Mr. Calhoun, I’ll walk with her,” Mrs. Calhoun said, to Delia’s dismay. “You go say the blessing so everyone can start eating. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

Placing an arm around Delia’s waist, as if she feared the girl might swoon without it, Mrs. Calhoun started forward.

The parsonage sat some fifty yards down the road from the church. If she wasn’t allowed to walk home by herself, Delia figured that at least, once there, she would insist she could find her way to her bedroom without any help. She would be alone in minutes.

They had nearly reached the gate that let out onto the dusty road when they spotted the horse and rider trotting toward them from the west, trailed by a swirl of dust.

“If he’s coming for the funeral, he’s a little late,” Mrs. Calhoun said with a sniff.

“Oh, I don’t imagine he is,” Delia said. She thought everyone who had ever attended the Llano Crossing Church had been present for the funeral service. The church had been filled to bursting, with folks overflowing out onto the steps. “Probably just another cowboy coming into town to enjoy Saturday night.”

Mrs. Calhoun pursed her mouth. “And tomorrow all he’ll have is an aching head to show for his month’s wages.”

As the rider drew nearer, however, Delia began to doubt he’d come from any of the many nearby ranches. In back of the saddle were bulging saddlebags, a blanket roll and a rifle. The silver buckskin he rode was wet to his hocks, as if he’d just crossed the Llano at one of its deeper points upstream, rather than waiting to cross at the town that bore the name of the bridge that spanned the river.

He reined the horse to a walk a few yards away; then, as he reached them, he halted the horse with a soft whoa. He laid a finger on the broad brim of his hat in an automatic gesture.

“Ladies, is Llano Crossing up ahead?”

His voice was gravelly and rough, as if it had been unused for a long while. His eyes, which were studying her with a frankness she had never been subjected to, were the glacial gray-blue color of a wolf’s. She felt herself shiver as if the sudden chill breeze of a norther had blown upon her spine.

Out of the corner of her eye, Delia saw Mrs. Calhoun give a rigid nod. “Just around the bend in the road.”

“And would a traveler find a hotel there where he could pass the night?” he asked, without taking those wolfish eyes off Delia.

She saw Mrs. Calhoun stiffen even more before she replied, “He would, if he were a law-abiding, respectable sort.”

Delia saw the threat of a smile cross the stranger’s face like slow heat lightning. He looked as if he would ask something more of Delia, then apparently thought better of it. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said, touching his hat brim yet again, his gaze drifting over to Mrs. Calhoun just long enough to be polite.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if it wanted to turn upward; then, as if noticing the somber hue of Delia’s black dress, it resumed its previous thin line as he nodded and touched the buckskin with his boot heel. “Ladies,” he murmured, and once he and the horse were a few yards from them, he nudged the horse into an easy lope.

Mrs. Calhoun sniffed again. “Well! He might have shown some respect.”

Delia glanced at her, surprised at the indignation in the woman’s voice. “He touched his hat.”

“I mean to our mourning, my dear! Why, he was staring at you like a wolf set loose in a sheep pen!”

Since a wolf was the very creature she had been reminded of also, Delia blinked in surprise. Mrs. Calhoun was probably expecting too much of the man, though, if she thought that the stranger would give a long, involved condolence speech merely because the two of them were dressed in black.

“A saddle tramp, I shouldn’t wonder,” Mrs. Calhoun muttered disapprovingly. “There are so many of them drifting through ever since the war. Like tumbleweeds.”

Delia was sure Mrs. Calhoun was right, but she didn’t want to encourage the woman to linger, so she remained silent as they reached the low, crumbling rock wall that separated the parsonage yard from the road.

“Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Calhoun. I’ll be fine,” Delia said as she stepped onto the flower-bordered pathway that led up to the white frame house. “I’ll see you later.”

The preacher’s wife took the hint after giving Delia one last look of concern.

“All right, if you’re certain you don’t want someone to sit with you,” Mrs. Calhoun said uncertainly, but then she started walking briskly back in the direction they had come, as if afraid the other mourners would devour everything on the tables before she got back to them. She paused only long enough to call back over her shoulder, “Pastor Calhoun and I will be quiet as mice when we return, in case you’re still napping. Get some rest, dear.”

Delia was sure she wouldn’t so much as close her eyes, but at least she had freed herself from the suffocating, if well-meant, sympathy.

She was awakened sometime during the night by Reverend Calhoun’s sonorous snoring coming from her grandpa’s former room down the hall. Padding quietly to the kitchen at the back of the one-story frame house, she found that her visitors had been as good as their word and had left her a delicious supper of fried chicken, biscuits and pralines from the funeral dinner. She ate, and then waited for dawn, praying some answers about her future would arrive with the sun.

“I don’t feel right about leaving so soon,” Mrs. Calhoun fretted two days later, after they had break-fasted on eggs Delia had collected from her grandpa’s—she still thought of them as her grandpa’s—hens. “Why, this girl is a bereaved orphan! It isn’t decent to leave her like this, Mr. Calhoun!”

“I’m not actually an orphan, Mrs. Calhoun,” Delia informed her. “My father is traveling in the west. I’m sure he’ll be home one of these days soon.” She’d said these words so many times before. “If he’d known about Grandpa’s illness, he’d have been home already, I’m sure,” she added, hoping it sounded like she believed what she was saying.

Mrs. Calhoun, who’d been in the act of levering her bulk up from the chair, turned to her. “Now dear, I know that must be a comforting thought, but your neighbor, Mrs. Purvis, told me you and your grandpa had heard nothing from your father since he left! I’ll pray he returns home, but don’t you think he would have done so already if he was going to?” Her voice was so pityingly compassionate that Delia wanted to grind her teeth.

“Papa will be home someday,” she said. “I know he will. After Mama died, he got itchy feet, as Grandpa called it.”

“He could’ve gone to fight alongside our boys in gray,” Mrs. Calhoun said, disapproval plain on her face.

Delia didn’t bother to tell her that if her father had been inclined to be a soldier at all, he probably would’ve worn blue. Feelings about the War Between the States still ran high in these parts.

“He said he’d gotten married so young that he’d never had the chance to see the West. He promised he was going to be home just as soon as he struck it rich.”

She hated the way her voice quavered as she remembered the hurt she had felt as she watched him ride off seven years ago. Why was I not enough for you, Papa?

Mrs. Calhoun tsk-tsked. “‘For the love of money is the root of all evil,’” she quoted sententiously. She looked as if she was going to say something more.

“If I have not charity, love profiteth me nothing,” the old preacher paraphrased, giving his wife a quelling look before turning to Delia. “I pray your faith will soon be rewarded, child.”

Delia tried to assume a carefree expression. “I’ll be fine, Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun. Really, I will. If I need anything, the Purvises said just to ask.”

She wished the preacher and his wife had gone yesterday, but since yesterday was Sunday, Pastor Calhoun felt an obligation to conduct the regular worship service at the Llano Crossing Church. Who knew how long it would be before the town would have another preacher?

It had seemed so strange—wrong, even—for someone else to be standing in the pulpit in her grandpa’s place, speaking about God. Reverend Calhoun wasn’t a bad preacher, and he certainly knew his Bible, but he didn’t have Delia’s grandfather’s dry humor. Nor did he place his pocket watch on the pulpit as Reverend McKinney had done so he’d know when it was time to close. It had taken several pointed looks from a deacon before Reverend Calhoun had ceased his flow of oratory and said the benediction.

Afterward, of course, Mrs. Calhoun hadn’t felt right about traveling on the Sabbath, so Delia had been obliged to endure the woman’s well-meant but stifling clucking over her and insistence that she knew best what Delia ought to be doing at every moment for the rest of that endless day.

“Mrs. Calhoun, if we leave now we’ll be home before supper,” Preacher Calhoun said now, laying his napkin aside and rising from the table. “Miss Delia has assured us she will write if she needs anything, or better yet, have someone ride with her up the road to Mason for a long visit, won’t you, my dear?”

Delia assured them she would.

“Perhaps I should just help Delia with these dishes.” Mrs. Calhoun fretted, waving a plump hand over the crumbs of toast and yellow flecks of egg that adorned the plates. “It’s not Christian to eat and dash off like that, Mr. Calhoun.”

The preacher raised eyes Heavenward as if asking for patience. “And then you’ll say it’s too close to dinnertime. No, Mrs. Calhoun, we are leaving this very minute. Delia won’t mind. Goodbye, Delia, and thank you for your hospitality in this trying time. Please know I’ll be praying for you every day.”

“Thank you, Reverend Calhoun,” Delia said, keeping her eyes downcast lest his wife discern just how relieved she was that they were leaving. Having guests could be exhausting in the best of times. Now she was eager to be alone with her thoughts and not have the constant duty of being pleasant and hospitable.

She picked up the picnic basket she had packed with the remains of the ham, several slices of bread and some butter she’d wrapped in a cold, wet cloth, and she walked to the door before Mrs. Calhoun could think of any further reason to dally.

Chapter Two

Reverend Calhoun’s fondness for sweet tea had left Delia with only an inch or two of sugar in the bottom of the rose-sprigged china sugar bowl, she discovered when she sat down to drink her coffee.

Fortunately, the hens had provided eggs she could bring into town to sell at the general store, then buy sugar with some of the money Mr. Dean paid her, and have a few coins to put aside for another day. But what was she going to do when she needed a sizable sum? If the windmill broke and she had to have it repaired, for example? And she had assumed it might take some time for the town to find a new pastor. If the perfect candidate was available, Llano Crossing’s time without a preacher would be brief—leaving Delia without a home. She would have to be able to pay rent somewhere.

Her grandpa had never been a great one for saving, believing that the Lord would meet his needs, even if he gave his meager salary to any down-on-his-luck tramp who showed up at the door. The Lord had always come through, often in the guise of one of the church members who brought them a side of beef or a bushel of peaches. But she couldn’t count on that to continue, now that her grandpa had gone on to his heavenly reward.

The Lord helps those who help themselves, she reminded herself. She’d better look into getting a job while she was in town, so when the time came she could afford to put another roof over her head, even if it was just a room at Mrs. Mannheim’s boardinghouse. Perhaps Mr. Dean could use another clerk at the general store, or Mrs. Jackson might need an assistant cook at the hotel. If worst came to worst, she could offer to clean and cook for Mrs. Mannheim in exchange for her room and board, though she had heard the German widow was an exacting woman who preferred to do everything herself. Or she could write to Reverend Calhoun and have him check into employment opportunities in Mason, as he’d offered during his stay.

She hoped, however, that she wouldn’t have to leave Llano Crossing. She’d been living here ever since she was eleven, when her father had brought her here as his wife was dying.

Taking a minute to gaze at herself in the cracked mirror, which hung in her room, she made sure the bow of the black bonnet had even loops and her thick brown curly hair was still enclosed in a neat knot on the back of her neck. Black washed out her complexion, making her even paler than she was, but the walk to town ought to bring a little color to her cheeks. In the meantime, she pinched them then picked up her egg basket and went out the door.

Intent on her thoughts, eyes on the path before her, she almost opened the rusted gate into the horse standing in the shade of the oak tree at the roadside.

“Oh! I didn’t know anyone was there!” she said, her hand falling from the gate as she took a step back.

It was the stranger she’d seen yesterday, the one who’d asked directions into town.

He touched the brim of his hat once again. “Yes, ma’am, you did seem like your mind was elsewhere. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You…you didn’t,” she lied, though she knew it was plain as punch he had. He had changed since yesterday; if not for the fact that he was riding the same horse, she might not have recognized him. He had the same wintry gray-blue eyes, but he’d obviously used his evening at the hotel to bathe and shave and have his clothes laundered—or perhaps they were new ones, bought from the mercantile.

Delia was afraid she was staring.

“Can I…can I help you?” She was used to unknown people showing up at her grandpa’s door, looking for a handout, or perhaps just spiritual advice, but she didn’t want to tell this wolfish stranger she was alone here. “I’m afraid the reverend isn’t available right now….”

“I know. Are you Miss Delia Keller?”

She nodded, feeling her heart pounding in her ears. How had he known her name? What did he want?

“I heard about your grandpa’s unfortunate passing when I got to town,” the stranger said. “I reckon that was his funeral you were leaving yesterday. Had I known who you were, Miss Keller, I would have stopped to talk to you yesterday, not ridden on past.” His voice was deep, like the bottom of a slowly flowing Texas river.

Delia blinked. “Who…who are you?”

The man dismounted before he spoke and dropped the reins to the ground. The buckskin seemed used to this action and merely dropped his head to crop at the grass that grew lushly in the shade by the fence.

As the man turned back to her, she got a true measure of his height. Somehow he was even taller than he had seemed on horseback. He would have easily overtopped her grandpa, who had become stooped in his old age, and was probably taller than her father, whom she hadn’t seen since the top of her head reached only to his elbow. The stranger would probably have had to duck to enter her house—not that she was even thinking of inviting him in!

He seemed to sense her qualms, for he held his ground and removed his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a headful of raven-dark hair. “Miss Keller, my name’s Tucker—Jude Tucker—and the reason I’m here is that your father wanted me to come by and see you.”

She could hardly believe her ears, and her eagerness had her rushing forward as fast as she had been backing up. “My father? You know my father? Is he coming? When will he be here? Why didn’t he come with you? Oh, I knew he’d be back someday!”

A cloud seemed to pass over Tucker’s face, and he put out a hand, not to touch her but to stop the flow of her words.

“He…he’s not coming, Miss Keller. I’m sorry, I should have made that clear right off. I-I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you he’s dead.”

Delia felt the earth shift beneath her feet as if she had been whirled around a dozen times and let loose. She would have fallen if the stranger hadn’t put out a hand just then to steady her.

“Easy there,” Jude Tucker murmured, his touch gentle. “You’re white as bleached bones, Miss Keller. Why don’t we step up onto your porch and sit down on those chairs? I’ve given you a shock, ma’am, but I reckon you’ll be wanting to hear the rest once you’ve had a few moments to think.”

She didn’t remember giving permission, but with his hand on her elbow, he guided her up the three steps and settled her into the rocker that had been her grandpa’s favorite place to while away an evening. He watched as she untied her black bonnet and set it on the small table between them.

“Is there a pump around back? Could I fetch you a cup of water?” Tucker asked.

His voice seemed to come from a long way off, and Delia had to force herself to make sense of his words before she could answer him. “A pump? Water? No…That is, yes, there’s a pump, but no, I don’t want any….”

Then, as the result of years of modeling herself after her grandpa, who’d never done the least thing without thinking of other people first, she added, “Oh, but feel free to help yourself, if you’re thirsty. There’s a cup hanging by a string from the pump.”

He looked surprised. “It’s mighty nice of you to be askin’ at such a time, ma’am. Perhaps I’ll do that, after I’ve told you about why your father sent me to see you.”

“What…what happened to my father?” she said, swallowing past a lump in her throat, her eyes burning as she struggled to focus on the stranger.

Jude Tucker looked down at the hat he held between his long, tanned fingers. “He died mining silver out in Nevada, Miss Keller,” he said.

When she said nothing, merely waited, he looked up at her, then went on.

“You probably know they struck silver out there in ’59, long before he got there, but your father discovered a new mother lode nearby. I’d been helping him mine it. He’d been lucky—luckier than anyone’s been since the Comstock Lode. He’d been saying he was going to head back to Texas, but before he could there was a mine collapse. I’d gone to town for supplies with the wagon, and he’d gotten pinned under a couple of big beams for several hours. He…”

Tucker paused, then seemed to think better of what he was going to say. His eyes shifted toward the road, but Delia could tell he wasn’t really seeing anything. He was remembering.

“It was clear he was in a bad way when I got there. I pulled the beams off him. I was all for trying to get him to the doctor, but he wouldn’t go. He told me he knew he was dying. There probably wasn’t anything the sawbones could’ve done anyway, and the ride would have killed him. He told me just to let him lie there so he could use the moments he had left to tell me where to find you, Miss Keller. He was gone just a few minutes after that.”

Delia felt a hot knife of regret stab her. If only her father hadn’t been so restless—if only he hadn’t felt that need to go seek his fortune. He’d be alive today, and she wouldn’t have had to grow up without a father. Mrs. Calhoun had been unknowingly right when she’d quoted that verse from the Bible. The love of money had certainly been the root of evil for Will Keller.

“And now you have,” she said, remembering her manners. “It was good of you to come so far, Mr. Tucker, to tell me about my father’s death. I…I don’t have any way to repay you for your trouble.”

Something shifted in the depths of those steely eyes. “You’re welcome, but I…didn’t come all this way just to inform you of his death. I came to bring you something. You’re his only living heir, after all.”

“Heir?” Once again, it was as if he was speaking a foreign language.

His lips curved upward slightly. “Well, I suppose heiress would be the proper word, ma’am. In my saddlebags I have a certificate from the bank in Carson City that you can have transferred to your bank here in town.”

“Certificate? What do you mean?”

“Your father had already mined quite a lode of silver before anyone—anyone besides me, that is—got wind that he’d struck such a big vein. He converted it to cash and put that in the bank. He died a rich man, Miss Keller. And now all his wealth is yours.”

He’d been afraid that the news might cause her to faint for real this time. Jude watched, ready to catch her, as the heavy dark lashes flew up and surprise siphoned the blood once more from her cheeks, but Delia Keller remained upright.

A soft gasp escaped her lips. “Rich? My father? And he left it all to me?”

Her incredulity at being the sole beneficiary surprised him in turn. “You were his only child, Miss Keller. Who else should he leave it to?”

“I…I don’t know,” she stammered in bewilderment. “As long as he’d been gone from here, I thought it possible that he might…well, have married again. Maybe even started a new family somewhere.”

Jude wished his friend were alive again, if only for a moment, so he could upbraid him for deserting his responsibility to his only child and making this beautiful woman doubt her importance to her father. Compared to that, even the thousands of dollars Will Keller had left her were fool’s gold.

“Or he could have left it to you, his partner.” She’d been looking down at her lap, but now he found those green eyes trained right on him.

Jude found himself unable to meet her frank regard. “I…I wasn’t his partner,” he explained. “I just worked for him. He found the silver all by himself. He gave me plenty for traveling expenses, Miss Keller. That was enough.”

“You could have kept the certificate and claimed you couldn’t find me. No one would have been the wiser.”

Those eyes seemed to bore right through him, straight to his soul.

“No, I couldn’t have,” he said, wondering what Delia Keller looked like clothed in some color other than black. Green perhaps, to match her eyes. Now, that would be a picture. “Besides, what would I do with so much money? I go where the wind takes me.”

“You’re a drifter?”

It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t one. Jude knew she had sized him up when he’d asked for directions yesterday—or if she hadn’t, the sour-faced woman next to her had done it for her.

“You don’t want to settle down somewhere, Mr. Tucker? Put down roots, make a home?”

He had to quell her inquiries before he ended up saying more than he meant to. Jude gave her a direct look, a look that was a little too bold, a look that said she didn’t know him nearly well enough to be asking such a personal thing.

“The question is, what are you going to do with it, Miss Keller? That’s what you need to be thinking of.”

He saw the flush sweep up her neck and into her cheeks and knew she’d gotten the message he intended.

“Oh! I…I suppose you’re right….” A parade of emotions played across her face as he watched, from astonishment to thoughtfulness to amusement.

“Well, this does change things, doesn’t it? I was on the way to town to sell my eggs so I’d have enough to buy sugar, and I thought while I was there I’d see about getting a job. I thought I’d better start saving some money for when the new preacher arrived and I had to find a new place to live.”

He laughed. “You won’t have to do that now, Miss Keller.”

She smiled, a smile of dawning confidence. “No, I won’t, will I? I…I can buy a house if I want to, can’t I?”

He nodded, amused. She really had no idea, just yet, of just how wealthy she was. “Miss Keller, with the wealth represented by that certificate, there, you can have a house built to your exact specifications. It could be the biggest house in Llano Crossing, if you wanted. Or you could move anywhere you like.”

“I—I see,” she breathed. “Well! That does give me something to think about, doesn’t it?”

A gleam flashed across those clear green eyes. Delia Keller looked as if she’d thought of something very satisfying. Jude wondered for a moment what it was.

“What do you suggest I do first, Mr. Tucker?” she asked.

“You said you were going to town. You should still go, and right away. Get that certificate into the bank safe before you tell anyone—and I mean anyone—about it.”

She looked startled at his sudden grimness.

“Mr. Tucker, this is a small town, full of good people, not swindlers and cardsharps. It’s not as if someone would snatch it out of my hand,” she protested.

“You asked my opinion, Miss Keller,” he reminded her. “All I’m saying is, go to the bank first, before you speak to anyone about what I’ve told you. After that, you can sit up on the roof of the town hall and call out the news from there, if you’ve a mind to.”

Jude could see his blunt words had splashed cold water on her bubbling excitement, which was as he’d intended. A little caution would serve her well.

“Very well. I’m sure it’s good advice,” she said. “Would you suggest that I not mention it to anyone afterward, either? Other than the bank president, I mean—he’ll have to know because I’ll have to tell him how I came by this certificate. But people will guess something has happened when I start looking for property….” Her voice trailed off and she looked at him uncertainly.

He managed not to laugh at her naiveté. “I think you’ll find that word will get around as if it had wings, Miss Keller. Be very careful. You’re going to find that the way people have treated you is about to change. Don’t trust everything that people say to you.”

She studied him for a long moment and looked as if she were about to ask him how he knew so much. But apparently, after the way he had responded to her other personal question, she decided against it, for she just nodded.

“I’ll do as you suggest,” she said, rising. “Perhaps you would accompany me, Mr. Tucker? The least I could do would be to buy you dinner at the hotel afterward, after the distance you’ve come to inform me of this…this astonishing change in my situation,” she said. She’d have to ask the bank president for an advance of cash in order to pay for the meal, of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Chapter Three

He laughed, but this time it was a mirthless sound that stung her pride. “Miss Keller, you’re a rich woman now, but you still need to be careful of what people will say. Being seen with a stranger—especially being seen dining with me—would not be good for your reputation.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but was determined to persuade him. “If I introduce you—if I explain that you were my father’s friend and came here to inform me of his death—I’m sure no one would think ill of it.”

He shook his head. “That wouldn’t make a difference,” he said. “In fact, it might make things worse. No, you’d do better to pretend we never met—other than yesterday, of course, when I asked for directions. That wasn’t exactly a formal introduction.”

“But what will you do? Where will you go from here?” she asked. She’d wanted to hear more from this man about her father—and, if she were honest with herself, she wanted to spend a little more time in the company of Jude Tucker, though she couldn’t have said why. There was just something about him. Perhaps it was only because he had brought the news that had just changed her life.

For a moment, he looked as if he was going to ask her why she cared enough to ask. Then he said, shrugging, “I don’t know. I’m a fair enough carpenter…. I’ll probably stick around town awhile, do some odd jobs to build up a stake so I can go back out West.”

“It’s honest work,” she murmured.

“It’ll take a long time to earn enough that way.”

“If you’re in that much of a hurry, maybe you should rob the bank,” she suggested tartly.

“The same bank you’re about to go to? Not a very wise suggestion, Miss Keller.”

She stiffened at his teasing. “I’m just going to take these eggs back into the kitchen, and then I must be going,” she said, going to pick up the basket she had left by the gate. “Good day, Mr. Tucker. Thank you for your kindness in coming, and for your honesty in bringing me my father’s legacy.”

“Goodbye, Miss Keller,” he said, donning his hat again and pulling it low, so his eyes were in shadow. “Remember, if you see me around town, we haven’t met.”

His unnecessary reminder, and his failure to acknowledge her thanks, irritated her. “That won’t be a problem,” Delia said, her voice curt.

Tucker had been compassionate in the way he’d informed her of her father’s death, but after that he’d done nothing but make her feel like a gullible innocent. Very well! She had tried to show her gratitude and he’d virtually thrown the offer back in her face—even made her feel that, by offering, she had seemed a little forward.

He was gone when she came back out, and she resolved to put Jude Tucker from her mind. With any luck, she wouldn’t encounter him again, and she could concentrate on the message he had brought, rather than the messenger.

Her father was dead. It was strange, Delia mused as she walked down the road, but after the initial stab of grief, she felt…nothing. Perhaps, since he’d been gone without a word for so long, he had been dead to her anyway. Of course, Delia hoped he hadn’t suffered and that, in the time between the accident and Tucker’s return to the mine, her father had thought to pray.

He had believed in Jesus, Delia remembered. She recalled times he’d listened to her prayers and read her stories from the Bible. But that had been before her mother’s passing, which had set the wanderlust loose in his soul so badly that he couldn’t bide at home and be a father to her.

Delia winced, remembering now how often she’d expressed anger toward her father when talking to her grandpa.

“Delia, darlin’,” she could hear him say in his drawling voice, rusty with age, “it’s plumb understandable and human that you feel that way, but you’d do better to pray for him, for his safety and his quick return. Let’s read that story in the Bible about the Prodigal Son. Maybe your papa will be just like that, and we’ll have a feast to celebrate.”

Surely it was a sin to be angry toward the dead. Her father was no longer capable of coming back to her.

But what about my prayers, God? I prayed for Papa’s safety and his return, and You let him die in a mine collapse, hundreds of miles away.

“God always hears us, child,” she could hear her grandpa say, as clearly as if he had been right there by her, “but sometimes his answer is no. And sometimes we won’t ever know—this side of Heaven, at least—why that’s so.”

And now that I’m a rich woman, it’s too late for me to help Grandpa with my money. How wonderful it would have been if she could have used some of it to buy him some comfort in his old age. She’d have insisted he move into her new house with her, or if he hadn’t been willing, she could have at least had the tumbledown old parsonage fixed so that its roof no longer leaked and its walls were freshly painted.

He’d probably have insisted she send the money to missionaries in Africa instead, Delia mused, and found her cheeks wet with tears. She could mourn her grandpa, even if she couldn’t feel deep sorrow for her father.

The town of Llano Crossing lay just around a wooded bend from its church and parsonage. Jude Tucker tied his horse among the cottonwoods that lined the curve of the river and followed Delia on foot, keeping his distance among the trees so she wasn’t aware of him. He was pleased to see that true to his instruction, she went straight to the bank without dillydallying to chat with any of the handful of townsfolk who greeted her in passing.

He hadn’t expected Delia Keller to be a beauty. Nothing her father had told him while they worked shoulder to shoulder in the mine, or later, when Will lay dying in the wreckage of that same mine, had prepared Jude for those large green eyes, that slender, slightly long nose, that rosebud of a mouth, all set in a heart-shaped face with a faint sprinkling of freckles. He supposed that when Will had last seen his daughter before heading West, Delia had been at that awkward, coltish stage that many girls go through just before being transformed into beauties.

He doubted that Delia even knew she was pretty. There was something unawakened, unaware in those clear green eyes. Her gaze had been direct when she had invited him to escort her to the bank and to buy him dinner. Perhaps it was because he had just told her of her father’s death, but Jude was used to women who knew how fluttering their eyelashes just so at a man would get them their way.

There was also a total lack of vanity in the ugly high-necked black mourning dress she wore. Maybe the dress was borrowed. He had known women who looked striking in black, but Delia wasn’t one of them. The harsh, flat hue leeched the color from her cheeks—and yet somehow she was still beautiful.

Now that she was wealthy beyond most women’s dreams, though, she could at least improve the quality of her mourning. She could buy dresses in finer fabrics, black mourning jewelry and fetching hats to replace that ugly poke bonnet….

Better clothing, along with her change in status from an impoverished orphan to a wealthy heiress, would draw men like flies. He hoped Delia Keller had some shrewdness to go with her comeliness, or she’d find herself the victim of some smooth-talking fortune-hunter who’d treat her to a whirlwind courtship and then, as her husband, exert sole control over the money her father had wanted to benefit his daughter.

Lord, protect her. Make her as wise as a serpent yet harmless as a dove, as the Good Book says.

Will Keller had suggested that Jude be the one to marry and protect her, right after he had struck it rich. “You should go to Llano Crossing and marry my daughter, Tucker. She’s a sweet girl, my Delia. You’d be good for one another.”

He’d scoffed at Will for saying it. “Will, what does your daughter need with the likes of me? Besides, we’ll probably never meet. You’ll go home one day, now that you’ve made your fortune, and I’ll keep looking for a rich claim of my own.”

“Or a rich widow,” Will had joked, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.

Jude had only shook his head. He was done with widows—especially those who claimed to be widows who really weren’t at all. He’d settle down with a woman someday, he supposed. He wasn’t a good enough man to always resist the clamoring wants of his body forever. But he certainly wasn’t worthy of an innocent girl like Delia, a preacher’s granddaughter. Not after Nora.

“This is extraordinary news, Miss Keller,” Amos Dawson, the bank president, said, laying aside his wire-rimmed spectacles and the certificate Delia had shown him, and crossing his arms over his considerable paunch. “You’re saying you had no idea that your father had amassed such a fortune?”

“Yes,” she murmured, feeling uneasy at his staring. His black beady eyes reminded her of her grandpa’s old rooster—right before the bossy bird tried to peck at her legs. “I—I mean no, I had no idea. We—my grandpa and I—hadn’t heard from him in years, you see. We didn’t even know if he was alive or dead.”

“How did you get hold of this document? Did it come in the mail?”

Delia wanted to say it had, to avoid questions about Jude Tucker, since he had cautioned her not to claim any acquaintance with him. But it would be easy enough for Dawson to check with the gossipy postmaster of the little town, who knew who was receiving mail from where and didn’t mind telling anyone who asked.

“I…That is, the man who had been working for him brought it to me.”

Dawson continued to scrutinize until Delia felt a flush creeping up the scratchy neckline of her dress.

“We’ll have to telegraph the bank in Nevada to verify its authenticity,” he said at last.

Delia felt foolish. The bank couldn’t just assume the certificate was real and start issuing her funds based on it. The document could be a clever fraud.

“I…I assumed as much,” she said, trying to sound like a woman of the world. “Naturally.”

Dawson seemed pleased with her composure. “We’ll do so immediately, I assure you, Miss Keller. I would imagine it will take a few days to obtain an answer—but during that time, I regret that I can’t…that is, the bank cannot act on the basis of this document.”

Delia nodded. “I understand completely,” she said, rising. It wasn’t a problem. She had been poor when she woke up this morning, and she could go on pinching pennies and doing without for a few more days. She only wished she had brought those eggs after all—now she was going to have to walk back to the house and get them or do without sugar in her tea another day.

Dawson rose also. “Assuming this certificate is authentic, Miss Keller, this is very exciting news, isn’t it? Just wait until the word gets out!”

Delia felt a prickle of alarm dance up her spine. He was practically clapping his hands together with glee, as if he wanted to be the first to spread the news. “I hope I can rely on your discretion, Mr. Dawson. I…I wouldn’t want to be the subject of speculation…especially before the certificate has been proved genuine.”

Dawson coughed and took a step back, and his features smoothed out as if an invisible hand had wiped all expression from his face. “Of course not, Miss Keller. Rest assured. But only imagine the possibilities of what you will be able to do with such a sum! The bank will be pleased to be of any assistance to you that you would require.”

“Fine. Please let me know when you’ve received confirmation. Good afternoon, Mr. Dawson.”

She swept out, disturbed at the complete transformation in the way the bank president treated her once he had heard the news. No wonder Grandpa had never had much use for Amos Dawson!

Intent on her thoughts as she pushed open the ornate, heavy door of the bank, she nearly collided with Charles Ladley, the mayor’s son, who was just coming in.

“Why, hello, Miss Delia,” he greeted her, extending a hand to steady her. “I hope everything’s all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Delia felt a hidden amusement bubbling up within her at his concerned expression. He must think she was here to ask for a loan!

“Thank you, Charles. Everything is fine,” she said serenely. “It’s kind of you to ask.”

He studied her more closely. “That’s good, that’s good. You would let us know if you needed anything, wouldn’t you?”

Us meant the Ladleys, the pillars of the community.

“Of course I would,” she said. “Tell your mother I said hello.” She smiled and kept moving. It would be interesting to see how this man, on whom she had once pinned all her hopes and dreams, treated her, once he knew she was no longer the poor little church mouse.

Chapter Four

Positioned at a table by the window that faced the bank, Jude was just about to sink his fork into his savory beef stew in the Llano Crossing Hotel dining room when he spied Delia Keller exiting the bank. He straightened, seeing her almost run into the dapper man who then chivalrously kept her from falling. Jude noted, too, how the handsome swell’s hand lingered a moment longer than was strictly proper on Delia’s elbow.

Jude was surprised by the urge he felt to jump out of his seat and dash out the door, shouting a command for the other man to take his hands off Delia Keller. But then she smiled at her rescuer, and Jude ordered himself to remain where he was.

Obviously Delia knew the man who stared down at her so familiarly, so he needn’t interfere. Delia was in no danger, and the richly dressed fellow speaking to her was perhaps the very sort of man she should be associating with from now on.

However, despite the fact that the encounter had taken no more than a minute at most, Jude couldn’t quash the primitive stab of jealousy that arrowed through him as he saw Delia gift the man with a warm wave of farewell. Involuntarily his hand clenched into a fist as he watched the other man linger to eye the gentle sway of Delia’s hips as she walked down the street away from the bank.

“Care for more coffee, sir?” purred a voice near his ear, and he looked up to see the waitress standing there, steaming pot in hand. She was pretty in a commonplace way, but she grinned as if they were old friends. “I’m Polly. New in town, ain’t ya?” She batted darkened lashes at him and he smelled traces of a cheap floral perfume.

“Thanks,” he said, deliberately ignoring her inquiry and not giving his name in return. In a small town like this she would already know that he was a stranger, anyway. He extended his cup, his gaze returning to the view out the window. Once his coffee had been refreshed, however, the waitress showed no signs of leaving.

“Who’s that fancy gent standing at the bank door?” he asked, the more to keep her from asking him any further personal questions than from a real desire to know.

She put a hand above her eyes to shade them against the glare, then peered through the dusty glass, squinting. For a moment Jude thought she might actually be too nearsighted to answer him. But then she leaned down again.

“Why, that’s Charles Ladley, the mayor’s son,” she said, sighing. “He sure is a good-looking fella. Wish he’d smile at me like that, though I doubt it’ll do that Keller girl any good neither.”

“What do you mean?” Jude kept his voice casual. He knew it was none of his business, but he couldn’t seem to keep himself from asking.

Polly gave an elaborate shrug. “Birds of a feather flock together, they say, and the Ladleys have always been as rich as King Midas. The preacher’s granddaughter—Delia Keller, that’s who he was talkin’ to—don’t have two pennies to rub together. ’Specially now that Reverend McKinney’s gone and died. Wouldn’t be surprised if she don’t have to come here and work ’longside a’ me.” There was a trace of satisfaction in her tone as she turned back to Jude.

If only you knew, Jude thought. With Delia’s status about to change radically, she and the mayor’s son would now be on equal footing. Any impediments to a relationship between them were about to melt like icicles in a Texas summer.

Aloud, he said, “Miss Polly, I’m sure the right man is out there, just looking for you. And when you find each other,” he added, trying to sound encouraging, “he’ll be so perfect for you, you’ll be glad you didn’t waste your time with that fellow.” He kept his eyes on Ladley, who was finally entering the bank.

The waitress’s eyes brightened. Jude realized that if he wanted her to go away soon and leave him to his thoughts, he’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“My, that’s an awfully sweet thing for you to say, in spite a’ bein’ a stranger an’ all that,” she gushed in that suggestive voice that wasn’t nearly as inviting as she apparently thought it was. She glanced quickly over her shoulder in an obvious effort to make sure the hotel owner wasn’t watching, then leaned closer. “Where did you say you was from?”

“I didn’t say,” he said, his gaze swinging back to the window, hoping she got the hint.

But Polly was nothing if not tenacious. “You plannin’ on stayin’ ’round these parts? I have to work till seven, but after that I could show you around the town.”

That would take all of about five minutes, he thought. “Thank you, Miss Polly, but I—”

“Or we could go to the church social next Saturday night,” she interrupted. “I know about everyone in Llano Crossing, so that’d be a real nice way to meet folks….”

He felt a twinge of pity for the girl. He hadn’t even given her his name, and here she was laying out the welcome mat. He held up a hand, knowing he had to stem her flow of eagerness. “Miss Polly, much as I appreciate your kindness, I’m not sure what my plans are just yet. I’m not planning on staying long in Llano Crossing, nice as it is. I’m either going to be riding along tomorrow or doing some odd jobs for a while before I head back West.”

Polly’s face fell and her overbright eyes dimmed. “Sure. I understand—just wanted to be neighborly, that’s all. Will you have some peach pie for dessert?”

Jude shook his head and asked her how much he owed. He would have liked some pie, but he thought it best to leave so the waitress could regain her composure. He left her an extra ten cents in addition to the dollar he owed for the meal.

Striding back into the early afternoon sunlight, Jude pondered his options. He could go to the saloon, he supposed.

In the war, he’d spent time in taverns with some of his men—too much time—between the horrendous campaigns that had led to too many lost and shattered lives. Nothing good had ever happened to him, or anyone else as far as he could see, anywhere near such a place. He’d met Nora, after all, as he was coming out of a tavern in Virginia, his judgment clouded with whiskey.

Stop thinking about her. It’s over. You have to learn from it and go on.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you, the Scriptures promised. All very well, but if he wasn’t going to seek out a card game, what was he going to do with himself?

The smartest thing, he mused, would be to get his horse, Shiloh, out of the livery stable and ride west out of Llano Crossing. He could stop when he felt tired, sleep under the stars and live off the land between here and Nevada. He wouldn’t have to feel responsible for watching over Delia Keller as she navigated her new life of comfort and ease. It looked like there was an even chance the mayor’s son would be more than willing to take over that responsibility.

But didn’t he have a moral obligation to his dead friend, Will Keller, to make sure his orphaned daughter was going to be all right, even if he wasn’t going to marry Delia?

In any case, it was a waste of money to leave Llano Crossing today when he was paid through tonight at the hotel. Tomorrow he needed to have a plan, but tomorrow was soon enough. In the meantime, Shiloh was standing idle in his stall in the livery stable, no doubt eating his head off the unaccustomed rich grain and hay. Maybe the best thing to do was take the stallion on a run over the hills around Llano Crossing. They’d return in the evening, tired but content, and hopefully the silver buckskin’s mile-devouring gallop would have left Jude Tucker’s demons far behind.

Within fifteen minutes, Shiloh was saddled and showing his heels to the little town. For the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, Jude and his mount explored the rolling limestone-and-cedar-studded hills, climbing until the Llano River showed as little more than a winding silver ribbon next to a collection of matchstick buildings of the town. Hawks soared overhead, taking advantage of the updrafts. Mockingbirds and crows darted among the mesquite trees and cedars, and occasionally he spied a roadrunner, darting here and there in search of the insects and snakes on which it fed.

Occasionally he spied a ranch house with outbuildings and a corral, and he knew he ought to stop and inquire if the owner needed another hand, but he felt no strong compulsion. He was enjoying the solitude and the opportunity it gave him to think.

The sun was warm on his back. He remembered, as he paused to let Shiloh drink from a cottonwood-shaded creek, how he had once used such solitary rides to gain inspiration for his sermons. It all seemed like a hundred years ago.

In those carefree days, he’d had no bigger concerns than planning next Sunday’s service and wondering and praying about when the Lord was going to provide him with a wife. Every man needed a wife, but a bachelor-preacher surely had more need than most, so as to keep his concentration on the Lord’s work. Fully half a dozen unmarried misses plus a widow or two decorated his front pew every Sunday morning, smiling up at him, but none of them had seemed quite right for him. Surely the Lord would shine a special light on the woman who was meant to be his wife, wouldn’t He? But as yet, no such illumination had been provided.

Then the shadow of war had cast itself across the land, and Jude sensed this wasn’t the time to be marrying and leaving a wife behind, her belly perhaps swelling with his child, a woman who might become a widow. The Lord was calling him to serve as one of His representatives in the army. There was time enough to think about marrying when the war was over, when—if—he resumed his position at the Mount Mulberry Church. A lot could happen during a war, he’d known, but as it turned out, he hadn’t guessed the half of it.

And then the war, and the things he’d done during the war, had changed him so completely that there seemed to be no point in even trying to return to Mount Mulberry and its church. He wasn’t fit to be its or anyone else’s pastor anymore.

With twilight drawing on, Jude and Shiloh had descended the hills and rejoined the road back to town. Jude had been humming “Tenting Tonight,” an old Civil War tune, when a shot rang out in the distance, echoing among the hills. The stallion stopped stock-still, his ears pricked forward. He gave a snort and then whinnied as if responding to a call.

Jude stopped humming, listening, too, and then he heard it—the faint cry of a man somewhere off the road among the dense mesquite and cedar. He urged his stallion off the road, navigating carefully among the cacti, the shrubs and the low trees, and after a few moments, he found the old man.

He was sitting alone on a limestone boulder, cradling his right arm, his floppy-brimmed hat shading his features.

“Howdy, stranger. I sure was thankful to hear you coming. I think this arm is broke. I tried walking, but I got to feelin’ kinda fainty-like.”

Jude dismounted. “What happened?” he asked, going toward the man.

“I rode out here just to have a glimpse at my old spread. Used t’ live here afore me and the missus got too old t’ be ranchin’ anymore and moved t’ town. I sold my acres to the neighboring rancher, even though I never thought much a’ Dixon Miller. Anyway, I was ridin’ along an’ someone fired a shot—not at me, I think, but real close t’ the road, like. My fool horse was so spooked, he threw me and took off,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “Didn’t see him run past ya, did ya?”

Jude admitted he hadn’t.

“Don’t know where he’s got to, though it wouldn’t surprise me none if Miller’s boys find him and put him in with their stock. All I wanted was just a glimpse of our old home,” he said wistfully, then he straightened. “James Heston’s the name,” the old man said, extending his other hand, though he grimaced when he loosed his careful hold on the broken right arm. His face was craggy and lined but his gaze honest and direct.

“Jude Tucker. Let me help you onto Shiloh, here, and we’ll get you into town. Is there a doctor in Llano Crossing?”

The old man gave a mirthless snort. “None I’d send my worst enemy to, let alone go myself. There isn’t any need, anyway. Nothing feels out of place.” He felt along the forearm as if to demonstrate, wincing as he did so. “My ranch is just over that ridge. If you could just help me get home, Jude Tucker, I’ll be fine. And I’m sure my missus will give you supper by way of thanks.”

Jude assisted Heston to mount, thankful that Shiloh was even-tempered enough not to mind a strange rider, especially one who trembled slightly with the effort to raise his foot to the near stirrup. Then he walked alongside the buckskin in the direction of town.

They found Heston’s horse halfway back. The beast had apparently cut across country and was calmly grazing. Jude mounted him rather than put Heston to the trouble of changing horses, and they rode on to Heston’s house.

“That was delicious, Mrs. Heston,” Jude said, two hours later, as he pushed himself back from the table and the remains of a dinner of fried chicken, black-eyed peas, corn bread and peach pie—it seemed as if he was fated to have peach pie today, even though he’d declined it at the hotel.

The comfortably plump woman with strands of iron-gray hair coming loose from her bun beamed at him. “My goodness, Mr. Tucker, it was the least I could do after you were kind enough to bring my Jim home,” she said, bestowing a smile of immense warmth. “It’s such a rare treat to have company, in any case.”

“My wife is the best cook in these parts,” James Heston bragged. He hadn’t eaten that much himself, even though his wife had cut up his chicken and buttered his corn bread so that left-handed eating would be easier. His forearm was splinted now and lying in a makeshift sling of bright yellow calico, so perhaps the pain had dimmed his appetite.

She beamed. “Thank you, Jim. And what brings you to these parts, Mr. Tucker?”

“Just passin’ through,” he said. “I’ve been mining out in Nevada, but I had to come here…on some business,” he said, deliberately being vague. “I’ll be heading west again, soon as I raise a little traveling stake.”

Heston’s eyes met those of his wife. “Lookin’ for work, are you?” Heston inquired.

Jude shrugged. “I might be. I’ve done some carpentry, but I can turn my hand to most anything.”

“I’m going to need some help around here with the chores for a little while, till this bone knits itself back together. And you saw when we came in from the barn that I’m in the midst of addin’ on a room to the back.”

Jude nodded. Heston was about halfway through framing the addition, from the looks of things.

“We couldn’t pay you much, but we’d include room and board for as long as you want to stay. It’d certainly be cheaper than the hotel or the boardinghouse.”

Jude was aware that both the elderly man and his wife were holding their breath awaiting his answer. Surely their offer was an answer to a prayer he hadn’t even prayed yet.

“Thank you. I’d be pleased to do that for a spell, Mr. Heston,” he said, humbled by their kindness to a stranger.

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