The Widow’s Second Chance

Meg Thomerson needs assistance getting back on her feet—even if it comes from the man who made her a widow. Ace Allen didn’t intend to kill her husband, he only wanted to protect the town from the man’s rage. Now Ace is keeping Meg’s business and farm running while she heals, both physically and emotionally. But is he helping her out of charity—or because of something more?

Half Native American, Ace struggles to find his place in the world. He keeps himself isolated from the community, but sweet Meg begins to penetrate his defenses. At first, he simply wanted to make amends to her. Now, if she’ll let him, he could become the loving husband she deserves...

“Look at me.”

As he spoke, he gave her arms a gentle tug.

Bit by bit, as if she were expecting it to be a trick, she did as he commanded while her mind recanted the litany that this man had killed her husband.

Common sense prevailed. If he hadn’t shot Elton, Colt would be dead and you’d probably be dead yourself. He did it for you. To save you. To save Colt.

His crystalline eyes clouded with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was only going to get a twig out of your hair.”

Holding one palm up in a “stop” gesture, he reached out with the other to pluck the harmless twig from her tangled hair. Without a word, he held it out to show her.

She felt like a fool for overreacting. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, daring to let her gaze make contact with the disturbing intensity of his.

He nodded. “I know you don’t have many reasons to believe anything a man says, but I want you to know that I have never raised my hand against a woman, and I never will. You have no reason to be frightened of me. Ever.”

PENNY RICHARDS has been publishing since 1983, writing mostly contemporary romances. She now happily pens inspirational historical romance and loves spending her days in the “past” when things were simpler and times were more innocent. She enjoys research, yard sales, flea markets, revamping old stuff and working in her flower gardens. A mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, she tries to spend as much time as possible with her family.

Wolf Creek Widow

Penny Richards

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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In His favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

—Psalms 30:5

This book is for Ace Allen Richards, first great-grandchild and Adventurer Extraordinaire. I hope to have many more “’ventures” with you, precious blue-eyed boy.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Benjamin Neeley for telling me about “thin places.” Now I know what to call those special moments.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Wolf Creek, Arkansas, 1886

Thunk!

Thunk!

Thunk!

The dull, rhythmic sound penetrated the light layer of sleep shrouding Meg Thomerson’s consciousness. She lay on her side, her knees pulled up to her chest as far as her injured ribs and healing arm would allow. Her hands, palms pressed together as if she were praying, were tucked beneath her cheek. Even now, dull pain pulsed in her side with every slow beat of her heart, a persistent reminder of the last time she’d been in this room.

Thunk!

Restless, she moved her head on the pillow, not ready to face the day just yet. Not ready to face what might be left of her life. The lonely night had been made worse without her children there to cheer her. She’d thought of going into their room, but knew it would only make their absence harder to bear. Besides, she was filled with the certainty that if she started sleeping in their room for comfort, she would never again find the courage to stay alone at night. Meg knew she might be many things, but she didn’t think she was a coward.

It was almost dawn before she’d fallen into a light sleep filled with echoes of Elton’s mocking voice and vivid dreams of him hitting her.

Thunk!

Her eyelids flew upward against her will. She didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to remember the last time she was here. Too late. Her gaze collided with the battered chest of drawers that sat next to her bed. Elton had hidden some cash and a gun there. The same gun he’d used to try to kill Sheriff Colt Garrett almost six weeks ago after escaping from prison, where he’d been sent earlier in the year for a series of robberies in the area and almost killing Gabe Gentry and Sarah VanSickle. The attempted murder had taken place on the same day Elton had been shot and killed.

It was that decision, one of the many bad choices he had made through the years, that led to his own death. Meg moved her head restlessly on the pillow. If she let herself remember, she would be filled with that wonderful, horrible, sinful feeling of relief that had swept through her when the sheriff broke the news that Elton was dead.

Surely she was bound for hell to feel as she did.

Thunk!

She shoved the shameless thought aside. She would take Doc Rachel’s advice and try to keep her mind occupied with other things. The lady doctor had assured her that in time, her inner wounds would heal, just as her physical ones were healing, and her joy in living would return. Meg hoped the doctor was right, but for now, she would not think; she would do. As tempting as it was to stay in bed and lick her wounds, she would get up and see what on earth that irritating noise was.

Using her uninjured arm to lever herself, she sat up. Though she had more or less healed, it was hard to break the habit of moving as if her bones were made of delicate crystal, like that she’d once seen at Sarah VanSickle’s fancy house.

Meg eased her legs over the edge of the mattress and sat straight and still, waiting for her still-tender ribs to accustom themselves to the new position before putting her feet to the floor.

She didn’t have to get dressed. When Doctor Gentry and her husband, Gabe, had brought her home from their place the evening before, Meg had been too tired to put on a nightgown. She’d pulled the hairpins from her hair, kicked off her shoes and curled up fully dressed on the threadbare quilt.

Now she crossed the wood floor to the window at the rear of the little three-room house. The bare planks were cool through her thin stockings. Faded blue-patterned curtains, hand-stitched from flour sacks and hanging from tautly stretched twine wrapped around a couple of sixpenny nails, were drawn against the night. Moving slowly, Meg raised her arms and pushed the curtains aside.

A familiar scene greeted her. The sun was already making its debut above the tree line in the eastern sky, hens scratched in the dirt with an industriousness Meg envied and the big white rooster flapped his wings, puffed out his chest and welcomed the day with a prideful crowing, as if it were all his doing. A lone pig rooted around near the small shack that served as a barn and her ancient gray mare nibbled at the stubs of green grass in the rickety corral.

Sunrise had always been her favorite time of day, an almost sacred time. A time when night and day merged, heaven and earth seemed to mesh and God seemed so near she could feel Him. From watching the world awaken and the animals working so hard, each new morning had seemed like a promise, filling her with warmth and hope and a chance to start over as the soft glow of the rising sun urged her to get up, move on, work harder and just maybe, things would get better.

They never had.

Today she found no joy in the familiar setting. No connection with God. All hope had been taken from her. Not even Elton’s death and the knowledge that he was no longer a threat could fill the emptiness in her heart.

Please, Lord, let Doc Rachel be right. Let me find hope and peace in Your presence once more.

The brief entreaty crossed her mind before she could give it thought, a habit so ingrained that not even the guilt that kept her from voicing a proper prayer could halt the habit of a lifetime.

Thunk!

The sound drew her attention to the couple attacking the woodpile—a man splitting the logs and a small woman with a long braid hanging down her back who was stacking the split wood beneath the lean-to.

He was a big man: tall, broad through the chest and shoulders, long-legged and lean-hipped. Even from where she stood, it was easy to see that he radiated raw power and brute strength. Perfect for chopping wood.

Or battering a woman.

A shudder shivered through her, and her knees threatened to buckle, forcing her to lean against the window frame for support.

The movement must have caught his attention. He turned and, resting the ax on his shoulder, fixed her with a penetrating stare. It was the Indian—well, part-Indian—man who had helped her with her laundry baskets a few times.

She’d never noticed how intimidating he was. His hair, so dark it was almost black, hung just past his shoulders and was held away from his face by a bandanna tied around his forehead. Though she couldn’t see their hue from where she stood, his eyes, in contrast to his swarthy skin, were so light they looked almost colorless.

His features were rough-hewn, and his face was all sharp angles, harsh planes and deep shadows. Heavy eyebrows were set in a straight line above a bladelike nose and a square chin and jaw. The combined effect should have rendered him ugly, but even though his face was fierce and a bit frightening, he possessed a harsh beauty. There was a noble look about him, something in the way he stood with his denim-clad legs slightly apart and the tilt of his head that seemed to shout that he was much more than what she saw standing there.

He looked magnificent and proud and wild.

Nothing at all like a killer.

* * *

Feet apart, shoulders back, his expression showing none of the turmoil churning in his gut, Ace Allen stood in the growing warmth of the September morning and stared at the woman whose husband he’d killed. Though the shooting was justified, done to save the sheriff, he was still responsible for taking a life and making the woman at the window a widow and her children orphans.

He wondered where that put him with God.

Maybe everyone was right and Elton Thomerson had deserved his fate, but Ace was having trouble making peace with what he’d done. For good or ill, his actions had forced him and the woman together and would take their lives in new directions. Wherever their paths might lead, they would forever be bound by Elton’s death.

Seeing the woman—Meg—made his guilt even harder to bear. A small woman, she looked insubstantial since her ordeal. She hadn’t braided her hair for the night and gold-blond tresses fell straight and silky from a side part, framing a too-thin face with almond-shaped eyes that he knew from previous encounters were green. A wide mouth, round chin and straight nose combined to make her one of the loveliest women he’d ever seen.

Almost as if she’d heard his thoughts, she ducked her head, reached up and swept the golden mass over one shoulder and began to weave it into a careless plait. The utter femininity of the gesture took his breath away.

“She’s awake.”

Ace turned toward his mother. There was a curious expression in the dark eyes regarding him. “Yes.”

“I’ll go to her, see what she needs,” Awinita Allen said, adding the wood in her arms to the neatly stacked pile.

Ace looked toward the window once more, but Meg was gone. “I want to talk to her.” His tone was more forceful than was necessary.

Nita placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Let me tend to her needs first. I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

* * *

Meg used the moment when the woman spoke to the man to break the strange trance gripping her. No. He was not just a man, she reminded herself. He was the man who had shot Elton. It was important that she remember that.

Ace. His name is Ace Allen.

Sheriff Garrett and Rachel had told her his name...among other things that had been mostly lost in the laudanum-laced world she’d drifted in and out of those first couple of weeks. Ace Allen had been in prison before. She’d heard that somewhere. She didn’t remember why he’d been sent away, but he was out now and chopping wood for the upcoming winter. For her.

Meg wondered again how she had allowed herself to be talked into such a thing. She’d been shocked when the sheriff and doctor had approached her together and suggested that Ace and his mother would be the perfect ones to help her around the farm until she was strong enough to handle things on her own, possibly until cold weather settled in. Rachel added the argument that the self-sufficient Allens could keep her laundry business going so that she wouldn’t lose her main source of income.

“I can’t afford to hire them or anyone else,” she’d said, though the thought of maintaining her income was tempting. “And I’m sure no red-blooded man is going to want to do laundry.”

Sheriff Garrett laughed. “Actually, Ace did a lot of laundry while he was in the penitentiary.”

“They live off the land, Meg,” Rachel told her. “Ace hunts and traps and fishes and they sell produce and fruit to the mercantile in season. They’re the kind of people who would do it for nothing, but you can give them meals, and I’m sure we can have a benefit or something to bring in some money. You know how people stand by each other here. No matter how strapped for cash they may be, they always manage to come up with something to help out.”

Meg couldn’t deny that. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more giving community than the one in Wolf Creek. She’d just never been the recipient of their generosity before. She’d always stood on her own two feet and “scratched with the chickens” for her living, as her aunt would say. Accepting help felt a lot like charity. She said as much to the pair doing their best to persuade her.

“Now isn’t the time to let your pride get in the way,” Colt told her. “And if you’re worried about Ace being in prison, it might help to know that the killing he was accused of back when he was younger was accidental. He got in a fistfight and the other guy’s head hit a rock when he fell. But because Ace was an Indian, they took the word of the bystanders. He spent two years at hard labor for something men do all the time.

“When Elton was caught and sent to prison for robbing Gabe, Sarah and the others, and word was that his partner was an Indian, he said it was Ace to protect his friend, and the judge sent Ace back to jail for the second time. Elton was lying.”

Meg wrung her hands together and looked at him with a furrowed brow. “How can you know that for sure?”

“Because I followed some leads and found out Joseph Jones was the guilty party. Ace was set free. He’s a good man. Will you be uncomfortable around him because of Elton?”

“No, not really,” Meg told them. Everyone in town knew Elton’s death was a result of his own actions.

“Look, Meg,” Rachel said, “I know you’ve had a lot to deal with, but you need to let us help however we can. We care about you. At least give some thought to letting Ace and his mother help.”

“He learned to do about everything while he was locked up,” Colt added. “He’s a jack-of-all-trades if ever there was one, and Nita will be a big help, too.”

“Don’t worry about payment. We’ll figure out something,” Rachel added, her brown eyes smiling. “And it will not be charity.”

“But I already owe you a small fortune.”

“And you’ll pay what you can, when you can. You have two children who need you, and you can’t take care of them alone just yet.” She gave a wry lift of her eyebrows. “You can’t even fully take care of yourself yet. Doesn’t it make sense that if you want them to come home you need to get better as fast as possible?”

Of course it did.

“Fine, then,” Meg had told them at last, and Colt and Rachel had promised to take care of everything.

They’d done just that, even making certain her children were taken to her aunt Serena’s place. Now she was home, and Ace Allen and his mother were here, as well.

Slipping on her worn shoes, Meg wandered into the larger space that served as both kitchen and parlor. She stood in the center of the room, hugging herself against a sudden chill despite the warmth of the morning.

Why had she ever thought she could come back here to live when memories of Elton were everywhere? She looked at the door and imagined him lounging against the door frame, three sheets to the wind, that arrogant, cocky grin on his handsome face before he...

No! No! Don’t think about it.

Malignant memories bombarded her from every direction, and she couldn’t think for the raw terror rising inside her. She turned in a circle, rubbing her upper arms, confused and unsure what to do next.

Stay calm and breathe. Remember that Elton can’t hurt you anymore. If things seem overwhelming, think them through. First things first.

Rachel’s voice, so soothing and sensible, played through Meg’s mind. She drew in several deep breaths and felt the anxiety begin to recede.

First things first. Coffee. She wanted coffee. Needed coffee. Was there any here? She couldn’t remember. She recalled Gabe Gentry saying that he’d brought a few staples from the general store, but she had no idea what. She knew she should eat something, even though she had no appetite. Was there water in the bucket?

She pressed her fingertips to her temples to try to still the pounding in her head.

“Breathe.”

She drew in another deep, cleansing breath. Her ribs throbbed in objection. Bit by bit, her alarm began to ease and her composure returned.

Coffee. There were plenty of logs lying next to the fireplace, along with a bucket filled with slivers of resin-rich pine knot that would flame in an instant. Her heart sank. She could handle the kindling, but there was no way she could lift the logs with one arm. Doc Rachel was right. She wasn’t able to do this alone just yet.

A loud rapping at the door sent her spinning around, the fire forgotten.

“Come in,” she called and was surprised at how hoarse and unused her voice sounded.

The knob turned, and Ace Allen, former inmate, the man who had killed her husband, stepped inside. The small room seemed even smaller when filled with his powerful presence.

As if he sensed her sudden discomfort, he left the door open and made no effort to move closer.

“Hello, Mrs. Thomerson. Do you remember me? Asa—Ace Allen? I’ve seen you in town a few times.”

His voice was deep and as dark as his hair, but smooth-dark, like the black velvet dress Mrs. VanSickle sometimes wore to church in the wintertime.

His eyes were compelling, perhaps because their crystalline blue was so unexpected in someone who, for the most part, had received his mother’s looks and coloring. There were lines fanning out at the corners of those incredible eyes. Faint furrows scored his forehead and his cheeks were lean and held grooves that might be attractive if he were not so stern-looking. There were scars, too, around his eyes and on his cheekbones. It was a face on a first-name basis with grief and pain. For the briefest second, her heart throbbed with empathy.

“Why?”

He seemed as surprised by the question as she was to hear it break the stillness of the room.

“Why?” he asked, frowning.

“Why do they call you Ace?”

His gaze never faltered. He seemed to relax the slightest bit. The subtle shift in his demeanor and stance eased Meg’s own distress somewhat.

“When I finished at the mission school in Oklahoma, I went to Texas and became a tracker for the Texas Rangers. They all said I was an ace tracker, so they shortened my name to Ace.”

He—an Indian—had finished school. Meg had no schooling past the fifth grade. As usual, she felt lessened by the knowledge. “So...hunting men down is something you know how to do.”

It was a statement, not a question. From the expression in his eyes, he took it as an accusation, even though she hadn’t meant it that way.

“I shot him in the thigh, Mrs. Thomerson.” Instead of exhibiting the evasiveness she expected, he confronted the specter standing between them head-on.

“He’d taken a shot at Colt that only missed by inches. I yelled and he turned and took a shot at me, just as I pulled the trigger. His bullet grazed the fleshy part of my arm, and I flinched. The plan was to disable him, not take his life.”

He stated his side of things with simple directness and no attempt to color his actions one way or the other. She heard sincerity in his voice. Her instincts told her it was real, but she’d learned the hard way that her intuition was often wrong. Making a lie sound like the truth had been a hallmark of Elton’s. After a while she’d learned not to believe anything he said. Ace Allen wasn’t Elton, but those lessons had been hard-learned and not easily forgotten.

“I didn’t know Elton shot at you, too.”

It was the first she’d heard of that. Or maybe, like so many other things, she’d heard but didn’t remember. Though she had no doubt that Elton had brought about his own demise, she now understood more fully why Ace Allen had taken aim.

“I know I can’t expect you to forgive me, but—”

“Please,” she said, cutting him off with a raised hand. Hearing and accepting his apology, feeling as she did about Elton’s death, would be the height of hypocrisy. “No more. Please.”

He gave a sharp nod.

Meg focused on his face. “I can’t pay you.”

He shrugged in a surprisingly graceful lift of wide shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. The way I see it, I owe you.”

No. She owed him a debt of gratitude for releasing her from her prison of pain and degradation. Meg lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the truth in her eyes. He wanted to make amends for leaving her without a husband, though he, more than most, would know that Elton hadn’t been worth much in that regard. Her husband’s contribution to the marriage had been two babies too fast and the occasional promise when he was filled with drunken self-pity to do better. Of course, when he drank even more and she did something to irritate him, that promise, like all his vows, went by the wayside.

“Sheriff Garrett says you can do laundry.”

“I can do a lot of things,” he said with a solemn nod. “I won’t let you lose your business. It’s the least my mother and I can do. Maybe you can take up your mending again now that you’re home and the ironing as you get your strength back.”

Thinking of her future, she moved toward the fireplace and rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. Taking up her mending would be a step toward standing on her own two feet again, and it would give her something to do, keep her from feeling so helpless. Give her an inkling of hope that she could make a good life for herself and her babies.

“I’ll make a fire and start some coffee, if you’d like.”

Meg whirled at the sound of his voice. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d forgotten that the stranger was still there.

Within arm’s reach.

Her heart stumbled and she pressed her palm against the sudden tightening in her chest. How had he moved so silently? So quickly?

As if he knew she was uneasy with his nearness, he went to the fireplace and squatted in front of the hearth, removing himself to a more comfortable distance.

Her nerves quieted. How silly of her to feel frightened by him, she thought. Just because he looked dangerous didn’t mean he was. After all, he’d helped her before, and two of the most respected people in Wolf Creek had vouched for him.

Meg had no solution for feelings she knew were irrational, but at the moment it hurt her brain too much to try to figure things out. She decided to fetch a shawl to ward off the chill that gripped her despite the warm morning. As she neared the door to her room she found herself drawn to the other bedroom, the one she’d avoided the previous night.

The door swung wide on creaking hinges and she stepped inside. The room was musty-smelling after being empty so long. She reached for the tin of talcum powder that sat atop the chest of drawers next to a stack of diapers. Doctor Rachel had given it to her when Lucy was born.

Twisting the top, she sprinkled a little onto the inside of her forearm and smoothed it in. She’d used the precious gift sparingly, but still, it was almost gone. She raised her arm and breathed in the pleasant lavender aroma. The scent triggered a vision of her now-nine-and-a-half-month-old daughter, Lucy. Lucy of the sweet smile, chubby cheeks and dimpled knees.

She was filled with the sharp pain of loss, and at the same time her body ached in memory of nursing her baby. But that was finished. Her milk had dried up weeks ago. Meg closed the top of the canister and blinked her burning eyes. What was done was done. There was no changing it. All she could do was move forward. Somehow.

Holding the oval-shaped tin against her chest, she let her gaze roam the room. Some of the church ladies had come out and tidied up for her return. Teddy’s cot, with his ragged, patchwork rabbit sitting atop the pillow, was neatly made, as was Lucy’s little bed. Meg’s heart twisted in sudden longing.

“You must miss them terribly.”

She whirled at the sound of the unfamiliar feminine voice. Though middle-aged, the Indian woman who stood there was lovely. Her slender body was attired in a patterned skirt and blouse. A leather thong with a black stone hung around her neck. Her oval face boasted nicely shaped eyebrows, a bold nose and a pretty mouth. Ace Allen’s mother stood before her, a soft, understanding look in her dark eyes.

Meg tried to rein in her emotions and gave a short nod. “I’m afraid—” she swallowed “—they’ll forget me.”

“Then we should bring them home.”

The first hope she’d felt since the day that had changed her life stirred in her heart. “But I... There’s no way I can take care of them yet.”

“I’m here to help for as long as you need me.”

Rachel Gentry was right. There were good people in Wolf Creek. “I can’t pay you,” Meg whispered.

“I’m not looking for money,” Nita said. “Christians help each other out. And please accept my condolences on the loss of your husband. I understand how you’re feeling right now.”

Nita and her son were Christians? Meg hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. That thought fled in the face of another. How could Nita know how Meg felt about Elton? Had she said something while under the influence of the laudanum?

“I lost my Yancy when Ace was eighteen.” A wistful smile curved the older woman’s lips. “A logging accident. It was hard, even though Ace was grown and away at school. Maybe harder since he wasn’t around to share my grief.”

Meg wondered what Nita Allen would say if she knew Meg felt no grief, only joy. This gentle woman who’d had a good husband wouldn’t understand that.

“I think it was the quiet that was the most disturbing,” Nita confessed.

The blessed, blessed quiet... No cursing. No yelling. No foul name-calling...

“Yancy was so big and blustery and fun-loving, he kept everyone laughing so hard they could hardly breathe when he was around, especially when he’d get to singing those Irish ditties.”

Elton had kept everyone on pins and needles. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to do or say anything for fear of it being wrong. And no one felt like singing in his presence.

“Your husband was Irish?” Meg asked, clinging to the single fact that jumped out at her.

“He was,” Nita said with a reminiscing smile. “And as handsome as could be. Ace got his blue eyes from his father, though Yancy’s were not so light as Ace’s.”

Meg found the notion of two people marrying from such disparate upbringings an intriguing notion. “Was it difficult, the two of you having such different backgrounds?”

“I won’t say it was always easy, but we had enough love and joy to make up for the bad. My Yancy was not a boring man.” Memories softened her smile. “He loved life and he was filled with Celtic songs and stories and romantic dreams and notions.”

“How on earth did you meet?” Meg asked, her problems forgotten as Nita Allen talked of her love for her Yancy.

Another smile curved the older woman’s lips. “He’d come to America and was just roaming around, looking over his new country, he said. We were drawn to each other from the very first and married, despite my parents’ fears of the worst.”

“And the worst never happened?”

“People can be very judgmental,” she said cautiously. “A white man married to an Indian woman...well, it isn’t always accepted. Yancy and I were able to look past it in most cases, and more often than not, people were standoffish rather than mean.”

Meg, whose own background wasn’t something she liked to remember, had often found that to be true with her, as well. With her mother’s lifestyle often the talk of the town, most people just avoided her as if she had the plague.

“Ace is the one who suffered the most. He grew up not really belonging anywhere. He lived with us until he convinced us to let him go live with his grandmother on the reservation, but he didn’t fit in there, either. He was neither white nor Indian. He was a half-breed. Believe me, it’s much more than a name people call you. It took him years to figure out who he is and what his place is in this world.”

Meg looked through the open door into the other room, where the man they were discussing had a small fire burning in the hearth. He still squatted, placing logs just so. It was strange to think of him as vulnerable in any way.

“And as for repayment,” Nita said, “someday you can return the favor.”

“What?” Meg said, as the words brought her thoughts back to their conversation.

“Someday I may need help from you, or someone else will. Then you’ll do what you can for them.”

Yes, she would. Somehow she would find a way to pay back the woman with the kind eyes and gentle manner who had taken her mind off her guilt and hopelessness for a few precious minutes. She would pay her back somehow, if it were the last thing she ever did.

* * *

Ace heard the murmur of the feminine voices coming from the other room. Maybe he should have listened to his mother. Maybe Meg Thomerson would have been a bit more receptive to his apology after some time spent with his mother and a good breakfast, but he had overridden her wishes and insisted on speaking to Meg first. At the time it had seemed imperative that he tell her what was on his mind and in his heart, to try to make her understand, at least as much as he did, about what had happened that day.

Elton’s widow hadn’t wanted to hear what had happened or know how terrible he felt for robbing her of her life’s partner. As rotten as Ace knew Elton Thomerson was, he’d still been a husband and a father, and Meg must have seen something in him to love or she would never have married him.

He brushed his palms on his thighs and stood, planting his hands on his hips and staring into the flickering flames. He wanted to do the right thing, but he could already see that it would be much harder than he’d expected.

Chapter Two

The breakfast Nita fixed might have been sawdust for all the enjoyment Meg seemed to take from it. Ace and his mother made desultory conversation while trying not to watch the way Meg pushed the eggs and bacon around on her plate, partially covering them with buttery grits when she thought no one was looking so that they would think she’d eaten at least a few bites.

“Do you think we can go get the children today?” she asked as Ace mopped up some yolk with a piece of biscuit.

“You can’t go anywhere,” Nita said. “Doctor Rachel made that very clear to us. She said the wagon trip out here about did you in, and she doesn’t want anything setting back your recovery.”

“I’ll be better when I can hold them,” Meg insisted.

Ace thought he heard a bit of steel in that voice, the first emotion he’d seen besides her very real fear of him and that disturbing melancholy. He shot his mother a questioning glance, and she answered with a slight lift of her eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

“I was going to cut down a couple more trees this morning,” he told her, pushing back his chair and carrying his plate to the waiting dishpan of hot sudsy water. “Winter will be here before we know it, and I don’t want you running short of wood.”

He didn’t tell her that if her husband had been taking care of his family instead of robbing people, the wood would have been cut and stacked long ago, making starting a fire a lot easier.

If you hadn’t killed him, he could be here right now, doing just that.

The voice inside his head that reminded him of his sin several times a day put a stop to his mental criticism of Elton Thomerson. Meg had grown up a country girl; Ace figured she knew you needed a mix of seasoned and green logs to keep things going.

He also knew there was no way the fragile woman sitting across from him could have done the work herself. How would she have kept warm when she’d burned the scant supply of wood in the lean-to? Despite his attempt to not think ill of the dead, a muscle in his jaw knotted in anger at a man he’d known only by reputation.

He turned to face her, leaning against the narrow table that sat against the wall. “Would you like for me to go and see about bringing them home instead of chopping more wood?”

“Would you?” she breathed, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“I’d be glad to.”

It wasn’t a lie. Though it was fitting that he step up and do the right thing for the woman whose husband he’d shot, Ace hadn’t realized how hard it would be. Not the work—he was no stranger to backbreaking labor—but seeing how badly she was scarred from the whole experience, and how deep her wounds were, left him feeling angry and helpless. He just wanted to fix things for her.

A sharp gasp caught his attention. His gaze flew to Meg’s. The pure terror on her face took him aback. What had happened? Why was she so afraid? Seeing no cause for her alarm, he shot his mother a questioning glance and saw reproach in her eyes.

Understanding slammed into him. His loathing for the way Elton Thomerson had treated his family, especially his wife, had somehow slipped past his usual outward show of stoicism. Seeing his feelings stamped on his face had terrified her.

It was time to go, time to get away from this woman who had somehow gotten beneath his skin the first time he’d seen her sunny smile and worked her way into his heart. For all the good it would do him. Whether or not Elton was corrupt and no good, Meg had no doubt loved the man she’d married. Ace would do well to remember that.

They finished the meal in silence.

“I’ll go to town and talk to Rachel,” he said when they were done. “If she says it’s okay to bring the children home, I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Meg said, without looking up. He gave his mother a brief hug goodbye and left, thinking that winter would be a long time coming.

* * *

Feeling guilty and with nothing to do, Meg sat on a stump in the shade of an oak tree and watched Nita finish stacking the wood Ace had split earlier.

Overcome with guilt, Meg waited until Nita stopped to rest a moment and said, “I feel terrible, sitting here watching you work. I’m not used to being so lazy.”

“It isn’t called laziness, child. It’s called healing. There’s a difference. All you need to do is sit there and soak up God’s sunlight.” She gave Meg a teasing smile. “But if you feel you must do something, you can help me shell the last of the beans that dried on the vine. I thought I’d fix them for supper. It would give you something to do and be a great help to me.”

“Yes, thank you,” Meg said, excited to be doing something worthwhile after being inactive for so long. “Where are they?”

“In the basket next to the front door.”

Meg went through the back door and crossed the room. The basket was sitting right where it was supposed to be. Meg bent over to pick it up with her uninjured arm. As light as it was, the effort still brought an ache to her chest.

She was about to carry it out when she realized she’d seen the basket before. It, or one very like it, had shown up on the porch with predictable regularity while Elton was in prison. More often than not, it contained vegetables, though sometimes there was coffee or a little meal or flour. When she’d emptied the basket of its bounty, she’d put it back on the porch, only to find it gone the next morning. Then it would show up again in a week or so.

Sometimes, she’d find a skinned and gutted squirrel or rabbit hanging on a nail, always fresh, as if someone were aware of her habits and knew just when she’d be there to find them. It never entered her mind that she should be concerned about someone watching her comings and goings, since she wasn’t the only person who had benefited from the mysterious benefactor. Ace and his mother were rumored to be responsible, but no one had ever proved it one way or the other. Recognizing the basket was as close as anyone was likely to come to solving the mystery.

Readying herself for the task at hand, Meg tied a faded apron around her waist. She’d lost weight since the day of the shoot-out, and Rachel said she was far too thin. Well, maybe her newfound freedom would relieve her of some of her worry, and her appetite would come back. Most likely, she’d just find a new anxiety, like how she was going to provide for her kids. She couldn’t rely on the good folks of Wolf Creek forever.

She was almost to the door when she realized she was thirsty. No doubt Nita was, too. The water bucket sat on the tall table she used for preparing meals, beneath the dishpan that hung on a nail and two shelves that held her few dishes and bowls. The long narrow stand, the same one Ace had leaned against that morning, was pushed against the wall, and the breakfast dishes she’d insisted on washing were draining on a flour-sack towel.

After filling two spatterware mugs with the fresh water Nita had carried in, Meg looped the basket over her right arm and took the drinks outside. It felt good to be useful, even in a small way.

Nita, who was just finishing with the wood, smiled when she saw Meg with the mugs. “Thank you,” she said, taking one. “I was getting pretty parched.”

Automatically, the two women headed toward the shade of the small back porch, where two unpainted, worse-for-wear ladder-back chairs sat. Meg took the one with the sagging woven seat, leaving the better one for Nita, then went back inside to fetch a couple of thick pottery crocks. Nestling them in their laps, the two women began to shell the beans into the bowls, letting their aprons catch the hulls. They worked in companionable silence for a while before Meg said, “I want you to know that I appreciate your help, Mrs. Allen. Your son’s, too. There’s no way I could have come home if you weren’t here. And I certainly couldn’t have brought the children back.”

“We’re glad to do it. And please call me Nita.” She ran her thumb along the seam of a shell. Beans popped out into her bowl. “Tell me about your babies. I’ve seen them around town with you, but don’t know much about them except that they’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Meg beamed with pride. “Teddy is nearly three, and Lucy is going on ten months. I’ve missed them.”

“Haven’t you seen them these past weeks?”

“Yes, but not nearly enough. My aunt and uncle are taking care of them, and with the way they work, it’s impossible for them to get off the farm very often.”

“Farming is a challenging occupation,” Nita agreed. “You have good ground here. It doesn’t seem as rocky as some places.”

“It’s a pretty nice ten acres,” Meg said. “I always wanted to plant some corn and things to help out during the winter, but my husband...he wasn’t much for farming.”

He was more for robbing and cheating and womanizing.

“I couldn’t seem to find time since I stayed so busy with my laundry and mending.”

“Plus the care of two little ones.”

Yes. Her little ones.

She loved Teddy and Lucy more than anyone on earth, but sometimes...there were worries that lay heavily on her heart, and there wasn’t a single soul to talk to about her concerns. She and her mother, Georgina Ferris, whose well-known escapades with the opposite sex were a frequent topic of gossip in town, had been at odds for years, which left her Aunt Serena and Uncle Dave.

Elton hadn’t wanted her having any friends, hadn’t wanted her to have frequent contact with anyone. He’d seen to it that they lived far enough from Serena for visits to be almost impossible, and they’d drifted apart since her marriage. Still, it was her aunt and uncle who had stepped up to take the children while she recuperated.

“Is something bothering you, child?”

Meg looked up and found Nita’s keen gaze fixed on her. There were a lot of things bothering Meg. It was so tempting to let out her doubts and fears.

Tell her, Meg. Tell her that your greatest fears are that you will turn out like your mother and that your children will turn out like their father.

The little voice inside her head appealed to the lonely, needy part of her she kept hidden from the world. She wasn’t sure why she felt so compelled to confess her worries to this stranger, but as strong as the urge was, Meg knew she couldn’t do that.

One of her mama’s favorite sayings was that no one wanted to hear another’s problems, that you shouldn’t air your dirty laundry to the world. Of course, Georgina Ferris’s laundry was dirtier than most.

“I was just wondering if you have other children?” she asked, knowing by the look in the older woman’s eyes that she recognized the lie for what it was.

Nita shook her head. “Even though Yancy waited on me hand and foot, I lost two babies early in my pregnancies and two to illness when they were little more than babies. Ace is my only living child.”

As a mother herself, Meg was keenly in tune to the older woman’s pain, even though the words were delivered with little emotion. Though Elton had still tried to maintain his image of caring and decency during her pregnancy with Teddy, he had slapped her a time or two. There had been another baby before Lucy that had not survived, maybe because Meg had been so worn down and distraught and Elton had been so furious that it had happened so soon. She would never know.

By the time Lucy came along, he had abandoned or lost any good that had ever been in him, though Meg suspected that what little decency she’d seen was nothing but a show he put on for the world. It was a wonder that she’d carried Lucy to term.

Meg and Nita worked silently for several moments, the kind silence that usually came with long acquaintance and deep trust. The soft rattle of dried beans falling into the bowls and the sweet song of a robin wove seamlessly into the tranquillity of the late September day. Simple, everyday sounds. The sounds of life and peace.

Peace. Would God give her peace once she put enough distance between herself and her memories, or was she destined to be forever lost in this numbing emptiness?

Be still and know that I am God. The favorite passage stole quietly into her mind. She took a deep breath and looked around her at the familiar barnyard scene and realized at that moment she was at peace, that there were no memories tormenting her. Could she dare to hope that her joy in living would return to her this way? In small moments of contentment and little snippets of the day that were filled with something as simple as the soothing sameness that was in itself a sort of peace? Could she trust that God would help her healing by blessing her in tiny ways throughout the coming days? After what she’d suffered at Elton’s hands, it would be hard.

But what about Nita? Though she’d been blessed with a husband who cherished her, her life had been filled with problems and grief, too. She’d lived close to God and yet she’d lost four children and her son had gone to prison—not once, but twice. She and her family had been ridiculed and persecuted because she was Indian. How did she reconcile that with her love and trust of God? How had she stayed so optimistic and encouraging?

Meg wanted to ask, but thought she’d spilled enough of her guts for one day. Besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to become too dependent on Nita or to like her too much, because she would be gone before year’s end, taking Meg’s secrets and fears with her.

* * *

The trip to Wolf Creek and back gave Ace plenty of time to think about things. He’d needed to escape from the fear he saw in Meg Thomerson’s eyes that his nearness seemed to generate. His guilt was bad enough without adding to her distress. He never wanted her to be afraid of him for any reason.

Meg had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her. About a year ago, he’d come back to Wolf Creek after spending a few years in Oklahoma, where he’d tried to put himself back together again after his two-year stint in prison. Tiny, blonde and green-eyed, she’d captured his interest with her bright smile and shy but sweet disposition.

It hadn’t taken long for him to find out she was married. It had taken even less time to learn that she had one child with another on the way and that her husband was pretty much good for nothing. At best Elton was handsome and shiftless; at worst, he was a drunk, guilty of ill treatment. Whenever Meg was a victim of Elton’s anger, the news spread around town, but she always seemed to put it behind her. She never lost her smile or gave in to her circumstances. He admired her for that and even for sticking to the no-account man she was married to. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever known, and Ace figured she and her kids deserved better, but then, that wasn’t for him to say.

He recalled the day he and Colt and big Dan Mercer had surrounded the Thomerson house. Every minute of that day was etched into his mind in vivid detail—from getting word that Elton and his cohort had escaped from prison to the moment he’d felt for a pulse in Elton’s neck.

What he remembered most was cradling a battered Meg in his arms on the way back to Wolf Creek, trying his best not to jar her lest he do her even more harm than Elton had. In retrospect, he should have hitched up her old wagon and made her a pallet in the back to transport her to Rachel’s, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time. Besides, he knew it might be the only time he ever got to hold her.

Especially since you robbed her of a husband and her children of a father. The cruel reminder slipped into his mind as it was wont to do when he least expected it.

There was no making amends for something like that. To say he was sorry and ask for her forgiveness would be a waste of breath. He hadn’t yet found the courage to tell God he was sorry for shooting Elton and ask for His forgiveness. Ace figured that until he could go through a day and not feel glad that Elton was dead, asking for the Lord’s forgiveness would be futile. He didn’t want to add to his other transgressions.

He was miserable without the Lord to lean on, weighed down by guilt and disgust. He’d been through a lot in his life. Clinging to a deep spiritual belief system and parents who demanded his best, he’d managed to come through all his trials with minimal emotional scarring. He wondered if that would be the case this time or if this second accidental killing would be his undoing...one way or the other.

He wasn’t sure how he could get to the point of true sorrow for what he’d done, since sly memories had a habit of slipping into his mind at unexpected times. Like Elton’s taunting voice saying that he wondered how Meg was paying Ace for the food he left on her doorstep.

Ace ground his teeth at the remembrance, and his horse danced sideways, the reins a conduit for his anger. Until he could forgive Elton for his treatment of Meg and himself for his lack of sorrow, the best he could do was help Meg get through the next few weeks.

He returned to Meg’s house just after noon and saw her leaning against the trunk of one of the big oaks in the front, staring up into the leafy branches that shaded her. Though her hair still straggled around her thin face, and purple shadows beneath her eyes proclaimed her sleepless nights, she was still beautiful.

When she heard his horse, she looked at him, an expectant expression on her face instead of the alarm he halfway expected. Relieved, he nodded at her in acknowledgment and shifted his gaze to the front porch, where his mother was busy scrubbing the graying pine boards with a broom and a bucket of soapy water.

He couldn’t help noticing the chunk of wood missing from a board a few feet from the edge. He’d put that mark there, a warning to Elton, who’d grabbed his wife by the arm he’d already broken. Just thinking about it brought back the fury that had overwhelmed him at the other man’s callous disregard for the woman he’d promised to love and cherish.

Ace closed his eyes and drew on the strength that had seen him through the dark days of his incarceration. When he opened his eyes, he was calmer, at least on the outside. Meg was following him toward the house.

His mother glanced up from her scrubbing, and he experienced a surge of love he never failed to feel whenever he looked at her. Like Meg, life had given her many hardships, yet both women had overcome their struggles with enviable serenity and a quiet dignity.

Nita Allen suffered no fools but had often been deemed foolish by her husband for her willingness to give of herself and her means, even to those the world labeled as takers and users. She was often hurt, yet she never changed, nor would she ever.

So here she was, lending a hand to yet another lost and needy soul. He hadn’t been the least surprised when she volunteered to help. He smiled at the busy image she made. From years of living with her, he knew that the water had already been used inside the house to clean something or other. When she was done with the porch, she’d water some plant or another with what was left. Nita Allen wasn’t one to see anything die or go to waste, especially a life.

He could smell the beans she’d brought. They were simmering in a cast-iron Dutch oven hanging on a metal tripod that straddled a small fire she’d built outside. It smelled as though she’d added some salt pork from the smokehouse. There would be johnnycakes and wild green onion and perhaps some potatoes fried in the bacon grease left over from breakfast.

Neither woman spoke, but they both watched as he rode closer and slid from the gelding’s back. It struck him how very different his mother was from the small blonde woman, yet how very alike their expressions were. He suspected that they had other traits in common, too.

“Well?” Nita asked with her customary bluntness.

Ace looped the reins over the hitching post. “Rachel says she thinks we should wait to bring the children home.”

The anticipation in Meg’s eyes faded. Something inside him stirred in response—the innate need born in a man to protect, to shield loved ones from any more pain.

“But she told me they could come home.” Meg’s voice was laced with distress.

“Rachel says she knows mothers and she knows you, and she’s afraid you’ll overdo it with them around. She doesn’t want you picking one of them up without thinking or chasing after them yet. She said you need at least another week or so to heal before taking up their care again. I’m sorry.”

Instead of answering, Meg turned and walked away. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her chin was high. She placed her feet carefully, as if she were so fragile she might shatter if she took a wrong step. And perhaps she would. Automatically wanting to comfort her, Ace started to follow.

“Let her go.” Nita’s voice was low but firm. “You, of all people, should know that she has to work through this in her own way, in her own time.”

They watched as she entered the edge of the woods at the side of the house, the same area where Dan Mercer had wounded Joseph Jones.

Ace thought of all the time he’d spent in the forest through the years. It was the place he’d often gone as a boy to try to sort out his mixed heritage. He’d learned of his Celtic past from his father, who’d filled his mind with stories of bards and fanciful tales and a strangely melodic language he’d tried so hard to learn.

From his mother he absorbed tales of the Keetoowah, the spiritual core of the Cherokee people, who stressed the importance of maintaining the old ways. The mission school he’d attended taught him the tenets of Christianity.

Vastly different, yet with fascinating similarities. All sought solitude for meditation and prayer. Both cultures thought nature was sacred. God had created a place of nature for Adam and had walked with him in the garden; God spoke to Adam there.

The woods were Ace’s garden. His refuge. A place to listen for the voice of God that whispered in the wind and murmured through the leaves of the trees and the rustle of creatures going about their day-to-day lives: finding nourishment, caring for their young, being wounded or hunted. Dying. Becoming part of the earth again, continuing the cycle put into place before the earth was spoken into existence. Ace believed that the voice of God could still be heard in the world around you, if you chose to hear it.

He watched Meg disappear into the woods and wondered if she would hear God’s voice. According to those who knew her, she had a strong will and a stronger faith. This time, though, her injuries were worse, the pain deeper.

He wished he could follow her, but he had trees to fell and wood to chop. He would be here when she returned. Deep in his heart, he knew that he would always be there for Meg.

Chapter Three

It was late afternoon when the noisy clatter of the dinner bell roused Meg from a light sleep. Nita must have supper ready. Meg felt a pang of guilt for leaving the older woman to do her work, but she’d been crushed by the news that she would not be snuggling with Teddy and Lucy just yet. Knowing Rachel was right didn’t lessen her disappointment. Holding her babies would have been a sweet balm to her spirit.

As she’d done so often in the past when things threatened her peace of mind, Meg had wandered into the woods, making her way to her favorite spot, where she’d always sought the healing quiet of the solitude. Soon after Elton had moved her away from her family, she’d found this place that had become her sanctuary, a place set apart from the reality of her life.

She’d often brought the children there and found comfort in the whisper of the breeze and the pleasing chuckling of the water that meandered along the rocky bottom of the creek, running to some faraway place she could only imagine. She’d often wished she could follow it.

A bed of moss beneath a giant oak made a cool spot for a nap when she needed a place to rest. In the early spring, she’d brought a broom to sweep away the leaves that had fallen throughout the winter. By chance or God’s design, a wild rose of vibrant pink had sprawled and clambered up and over the branches of a nearby dogwood in early summer, reaching for what sunlight it could find in the mostly shaded area and sending its sweet fragrance adrift on the whispers of the vagrant breezes.

Even now, in the heat of September, hurting and wondering if she would ever feel whole again, she found the place beautiful. The rose and bleeding hearts had long since bloomed and the resurrection fern had dried up and curled into brown patches that clung tenaciously to the sturdy limbs of the tree, yet the sweet blessing of one good rain would return them to vibrant life.

Secure in the hope that that same vibrancy of life would be hers again someday, she’d closed her eyes and waited to see if the peacefulness of her surroundings would work its healing powers as it had in the past. In time, it did. She’d let her thoughts wander at will, from wondering where the creek emptied to how much Lucy and Teddy had probably grown since she’d seen them and how she would give them a better life. They might not have a lot of extras, but she would make up for it by giving them a life filled with love, not fear.

Throughout the afternoon, she’d heard the measured whack of an ax against wood. Ace cutting down more trees. She must have dozed off while thinking about him and his mother and their willingness to help a woman who was more or less a stranger.

Awake now, Meg sat up and looked around, hardly able to believe that she’d slept so long and without any frightening dreams. She wondered if finding a few hours of peace was a good start for putting the pieces of her life back together and knew that Rachel would say it was.

This had always been a perfect spot for dreams and plans. Dreams. Like all young girls, she’d had dreams once, daydreams about a life free of the shame of her mother’s life. Visions of finding a way out. Then she’d met Elton, with his good looks and his own extravagant fantasies of big houses and fancy clothes and trips to San Francisco and St. Louis, and she felt that her yearnings had come true at last.

Those dreams had begun to flee one after the other, shortly after marrying him almost four years ago. Now her mind was filled with plans, but the dreams were as dead as her husband and the resurrection ferns that had turned brown from the heat of summer.

When she’d first awakened at Rachel’s and was coherent enough to make sense of the things she was told, she’d thought—even dared to hope—that with Elton out of the picture her life would change for the better. Would it?

She gave her head a shake to dislodge the brief moment of melancholy and doubt. She could not let gloomy thoughts take hold. She had no idea how to move ahead with her life, but she knew that if she dwelled on her mistakes and her past, Elton would win, and she refused to let him rule her life from the grave. She would get past this, just as she’d always done.

Could she, all alone?

One day at a time.

Rachel’s gentle reminder. In the early days, when Meg had been racked by unbearable pain, Rachel had told her to take it hour by hour, one day at a time. She also told her that to find her way back she should look for joy in small things, telling Meg that God sprinkled dozens of blessings throughout our days if we only took time to look for them.

Well, there was this place, she thought, looking around. It was surely a blessing, since she had slept without interruption or bad dreams. And, she thought wryly, as the dinner bell rang a second time, it was a blessing that she didn’t have to cook supper.

She stood and stretched her arms and shoulders with care to get out the kinks. Giving her faded skirt a shake, she started back to the house, using the much-traveled deer path. She was a few feet from the clearing when she stopped dead still. Like a wild creature sensing danger, her head came up. A sharp gasp escaped her.

Ace stood on the path, blocking the way to the house just as the breadth of his shoulders obstructed the clearing behind him. He loomed over her. The lacy pattern of sunlight and shadows gave his lean cheeks the impression of wearing war paint, like the pictures she’d once seen in a book. He looked untamed and dangerous. His sheer size and raw maleness were overpowering, making her feel weak and defenseless.

“What are you doing here?” The breathless question sounded accusatory even to her ears.

His troubled blue eyes seemed to take in every inch of her in a single glance. “Mother was worried that you’d gone too far or got turned around. She was afraid you didn’t hear the bell, so she sent me to find you.” His voice was deep and low, mesmerizing. The frightened fluttering of her heart slowed.

“I was down by the creek. I’m fine. I’m here.” The explanation came out in a flurry of words that tumbled over one another.

“So you are.”

Did she imagine the flicker of gentleness that came and went in his eyes? Without warning, he reached out toward her. With a little yelp, Meg cringed and brought up both arms to cover her head in an instinctive gesture of self-preservation. The action was both instant and involuntary as he took her wrists gently.

Breathing hard, eyes shut tight and little whimpers of fear escaping her, she waited for the blow to come, but instead she heard words murmured in a language she didn’t understand. Soft words. Soothing words.

“Meg.” His deep voice persuaded, compelled. “Look at me.”

Bit by bit, as if she were expecting it to be a trick, she did as he commanded and saw the remorse clouding his crystalline eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was only going to get a twig out of your hair.”

Trembling, Meg stood stock-still. She’d seen regret before. She’d heard all the ways to say I’m sorry. She’d learned not to believe them. Still, something held her immovable. What was it she saw or felt in him that told her she could trust him, despite his fierceness?

“No!” she heard herself saying. “I...I’m s-sorry.”

Moving at a snail’s pace so as not to alarm her further, he let go of her wrists. Then he held one palm up in a stop gesture and reached out with the other to pluck the twig from her tangled hair. Without a word, he held it out to show her.

She felt like a fool for overreacting. “Th-thank you,” she whispered, daring to let her gaze make contact with the disturbing intensity of his. She saw nothing there but the same tenderness she heard in his voice.

He nodded. “I know you don’t have many reasons to believe anything a man says, but I want you to know that I have never raised my hand against a woman, and I never will. You have no reason to be frightened of me. Ever.”

Then, without waiting for her to answer, he held out his arm as if he were a well-heeled gentleman from the city and she an elegant lady going to some fancy social event. She looked from his arm to his face in confusion. She was no lady. He was no gentleman.

When she made no move to take his proffered elbow, he stepped aside for her to precede him to the house. She brushed against him on the narrow path and caught a whiff of leather and pine. She stumbled and glanced up at him, even as he reached out to steady her. Once again her heart began to beat faster, but not because she felt threatened. Disturbingly aware of his nearness, she cast an occasional glance over her shoulder just to be sure he was keeping his distance.

She didn’t want him too close. The question that tumbled through her mind was Why?

* * *

Nita Allen had been busy while Meg hid out in the woods. Her little house fairly sparkled. Ace’s mother had taken the cleaning begun by the church ladies a step further. She’d scrubbed the windows, polished the beat-up buffet table Elton had found dumped somewhere and brought home to her in the wagon, and washed the dust from her scant collection of mismatched plates and glassware. Even the globes of her kerosene lamps glistened. The scents of fried potatoes and pinto beans mingled with the sharp, clean odor of the lemon balm and beeswax used on the furniture.

A crockery bowl with a blue rim was filled with crisp fried potatoes. The pot of beans with a dipper in it sat on a folded dish towel, as if the table were a piece of fine furniture that the heat might ruin. A plate of corn bread baked in a small iron skillet had already been sliced into wedges. A bowl of fresh butter sat next to a jar of pickled beets, and a small plate held wild green onions.

It was like walking into a fairy tale. Thanks to two strangers, her tired little house felt like a home, but not because it was clean and tidy. Even though she worked hard and had little, Meg had always kept a clean house. Elton demanded that.

The difference was in the feel of the house. She’d experienced no dread or fear when she’d walked through the door. No need to walk on eggshells to keep whatever tentative peace might be found on any given day. No need to guard her tongue lest she set Elton off with some innocent comment. No dread of when he might come back and shatter the temporary respite she found during his absences. No despair.

The house felt warm. Welcoming.

As she stood letting the differences register on her mind, her stomach growled. Nita smiled. Embarrassed, Meg turned away, but for the first time in weeks, she thought she might be able to eat more than a few bites.

When they were seated and thanks had been given for the food, Ace began to pass the bowls. Feeling she should show her appreciation in some way, Meg scooped a few potatoes onto her plate and said, “The house looks so nice, Mrs. Allen. Thank you. And supper looks delicious.”

“It was nothing. Things were already in order. It just needed the dust washed off. Did you have a good rest this afternoon?”

The question surprised Meg as much as the answer that came to mind. She realized with something of a start that she had rested, and not just during the time she slept. There had always been something about her special spot that brought her at least passing peace. Today had been no different.

“Actually, I did.”

“That’s good.” Nita finished filling her plate and turned to her son. “Did you let everyone know Meg is back in business?”

“I did,” he said, slathering some fresh-churned butter onto a piece of corn bread. “Hattie is really excited. So is Ellie.” He glanced at Meg. “Keeping up with the wash has been hard for them since you’ve been out of commission.”

Though she did weekly laundry for a few of the more affluent people in town, Hattie’s Hotel and Boardinghouse and Ellie’s Café were Meg’s biggest customers.

“I’ll take the wagon in and pick up what they have early in the morning,” Ace told her. “If you ladies will have the kettles boiling when I get back, we ought to be done by evening.”

It was good to know that her services had been missed, but she hated relying on someone else to do her work, even though she needed the money.

“I think I’ll be able to help with the ironing,” she said, looking from Ace to Nita, knowing Ellie and Hattie would have several tablecloths to do up with starch.

“I don’t think it will hurt you, either,” Nita said, “as long as you don’t overdo things. I’ll bring my ironing board and iron in the morning. Together, we should be able to get it done in no time.”

It sounded like a good plan, Meg thought. She would iron until she got tired, do any mending and gradually work back into her regular routine. A step toward taking control of her life once again.

Meg had forgotten that the Allens would be leaving soon, probably as soon as the supper dishes were done. After all, they had their own chores to do. It occurred to her with something of a start just how much of a sacrifice they were making to help her. Their log cabin that sat on a small parcel of land must be at least four miles from her place.

Though she hadn’t wanted to spend any more time with them than necessary, now that she knew they were about to go, she wondered how she would pass the long hours of the night that stretched out before her, empty and lonely.

She’d spent more nights than she could number here alone except for her kids, and she’d stayed by herself last night, but she had been so numb, so exhausted from the ride from town, that sheer weariness and a dream-filled, restless sleep had claimed her early in the evening.

Now that she was a bit more herself, the thought of being alone was a little troubling. Except for the kids, she’d been here alone when Elton and Joseph Jones had barged in after their prison escape. Without warning, her heart began to race. As Rachel had taught her, Meg forced her breathing to a slow rhythm and reminded herself that she no longer had to worry about either of them.

“I hope it’s all right, but I picked up some mending for you while I was in town.”

She was grateful for the sound of Ace’s voice that brought her wandering thoughts back to the present.

“Just a few things Ellie needed repaired and a tear on the sleeve of one of Daniel’s shirts that Rachel hasn’t had time to get to.”

“Oh, yes!” Meg heard the relief and eagerness in her voice. “That’s fine. It will give me something to do when you go.”

“Would you like for me to stay with you tonight?” Nita asked. “I don’t mind. Ace can take care of things at home.”

Longing to take her new companion up on her offer, Meg stiffened her spine and her resolve. She’d stood on her own two feet all her life, and just because things were...different now was no reason to become a namby-pamby. She couldn’t lean on others forever. She raised her chin a fraction and met Nita’s troubled gaze. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

She gave her attention back to her plate, almost missing the look that passed between mother and son. When the meal was over, Meg was surprised to see that she’d eaten almost all the food she’d dished up.

“Being outside did you a lot of good,” Nita said, rising and gathering the plates.

“I guess it did.”

“You’ll be surprised at how much better you feel the more you’re able to be up and around. No one has much appetite when they’re lying around all day.”

Meg hoped it was true. She was tired of being an invalid.

By the time they finished the supper dishes, dusk was settling in. Ace came in from outside and put a couple of eggs into the wire basket sitting on the scarred buffet.

As she watched, he rolled his shoulders and arched his back. “I gave the horse some oats and penned up the chickens and the pig for the night. I think things are fine until morning.”

“The question is, are you?” There was a teasing note in his mother’s voice.

Something that might have been a smile crossed his face. “I’m getting a little stiff,” he admitted. “I haven’t chopped this much wood in a long while, and I’m not as young as I used to be.” He leveled a teasing look at his mother. “Which means you aren’t, either.”

Meg watched the loving interaction between the two. How long had it been since she’d heard that kind of lighthearted banter? Her second thought was to wonder how old he was. Older than she was, for certain, yet he looked to be in his prime, and he was certainly strong.

A wisp of memory floated across her mind, drifting in and out of her consciousness. She was hearing the sound of hoofbeats in rhythm with the steady heartbeat that throbbed beneath her ear, feeling powerful arms around her and knowing without a doubt she was safe.

Her thoughtful gaze found the man who had suddenly come to play such a huge role in her life. She recalled being told he had taken her to Rachel’s. It had been Ace’s arms that held her. Ace’s strength that made her feel safe. Ace’s heart that beat against her ear. Common sense told her that a man who would hold her so gently would not hurt her, but putting aside the wariness her past had instilled in her would not come overnight.

“Well, if there’s nothing else we can do, we’ll go,” Nita said, scattering Meg’s thoughts. The older woman crossed the room and enveloped Meg in a tender embrace. Unaccustomed to displays of affection, she stiffened. Her mother had seldom hugged her—Elton, never—and it had been a long time since she’d seen her aunt Serena.

Nita drew back at once, sensing that she’d overstepped some invisible boundary. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m a hugger. I forget not everyone is.”

Without waiting for Meg to reply, she gave a little wave and slipped through the door. Ace followed, leaving Meg alone with her memories, her sorrow and an aching loneliness. She wished Nita would come back. Wished she could let the older woman hold her in her arms while she cried out all her fears and worries.

Wished she could cry.

* * *

Nita and Ace climbed onto their horses and turned them toward home. “She’s worse than I expected,” Nita said as they rode side by side.

“She’s been through a lot.”

“I know.”

“When I went to fetch her for supper, I saw a twig in her hair and reached out to get it.” His tormented gaze met his mother’s, and his jaw knotted in a familiar way. “She covered her head and shrank away from me.”

“It’s what she knows,” Nita said after a moment. “It’s what she’s come to expect from men.”

“It isn’t right,” he said in a low, savage voice. “It isn’t fair.”

“Oh, my son,” Nita soothed, tipping her head back to look up at the first star of the evening. “You, of all people, should know that much of what happens in our lives is neither right nor fair.”

Yes. He should know. Did.

“Rachel told me today that she’s never seen Meg cry a single tear.”

He never stopped to think that neither had he, though he’d been imprisoned wrongly twice, beaten and even left for dead on one occasion. He considered tears a weakness, something men didn’t indulge in. He was Cherokee, from a people who had suffered more than he ever would. And he was Irish, able to put on a smile when it was called for.

“Some wounds are so great that the only way to survive is to lock them up in a little box and put them somewhere deep inside,” Nita said.

“Do you think she’ll get better?” Ace would rather rely on his mother’s knowledge than that of any other healer.

“Rachel says the mind is a strange thing,” Nita told him. “I pray that she will, in time. We can’t lose heart or patience.”

She looked at Ace with a solemn expression. “I’m proud of you, my son. Though it has taken time, I can say that the things you’ve been through have not destroyed you. They’ve made you the man you are. That’s something we need to try to get through to Meg. And it’s something you need to keep in mind, too, when you think about your role in all this.”

“Killing Elton, you mean?”

“Yes. You’ve come too far to let that destroy your faith and your peace.”

He sucked in a harsh lungful of air and met her tender gaze with one of defiance. “I hate that it happened, but God help me, I’m glad he’s dead.”

Instead of chastising him for the un-Christian thought, his mother asked, “Why?”

“I’d think that’s pretty obvious. He was a terrible human being who mistreated his wife.”

“And you care for her.”

Ace was appalled by her suggestion. Or perhaps he was appalled that his mother had discovered his secret.

“I think you care for Meg Thomerson. I think you’ve cared for her for a while. And I think that’s why you’re happy Elton is dead.”

“Are you saying that you think I did it on purpose?” he asked with a scowl.

“Of course not!” his mother scoffed. “You’re experiencing remorse for having feelings for another man’s wife. Those feelings only increase your guilt for taking his life, even though there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was warranted.

“You are not a killer, Ace Allen, and despite your past, you are an honorable man. I think that is why you are having such a hard time making peace with yourself,” she said.

“How can I ask God to forgive me when I’m sorry for shooting him but not sorry he’s dead?”

“Maybe it’s time you stopped trying to figure out things on your own and have a serious talk with God.”

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