“About a dime,” Daniel answered caustically. Then he released the brake, slapped down the reins, and drove off.

  Jolie watched him go, remembering the kiss and hating him for the power he had over her. Much to her secret chagrin, she wished with all her might that he’d come back and make love to her.

  Fortunately for her, the demands on a farm wife’s time were legion, and there was little time to stew. Jolie put Gemma down for a nap, settled Hank quietly at the kitchen table with an old reading primer she’d found on a bookshelf in the study, and listened as he struggled through several pages of simple prose.

  At least, whatever else he’d lacked in his six years on earth, Hank had had a few months of education. And he was bright.

  “You know,” Jolie ventured, as she stood at the sink, peeling potatoes for the expected crowd of field hands, “you haven’t even told me your last name.”

  Hank’s eyes were a tender blue, like Daniel’s, and that seemed like a good omen to Jolie. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t realize she was being dangerously fanciful. “I didn’t reckon it was important,” he said, closing the primer.

  Jolie sliced a misshapen spud into halves and dropped it into a big kettle of cold, salted water. “Daniel—Mr. Beckham—means to send a wire to the people who were taking care of you and Gemma in Spokane. Just to let them know you’re all right.”

  The child stared blindly at the woodbox next to the stove for a few moments. “They don’t want us,” he said. “No more than our uncle did.”

  A ruckus in the barnyard told Jolie that the men Daniel had hired for the harvest were beginning to arrive. Deciding to greet them later, she closed the kitchen door and sat down across the table from Hank. “Tell me about your father,” she urged softly, folding her hands on the checkered tablecloth. “Do you remember him?”

  Hank swallowed visibly and shrugged his thin shoulders. “Pa liked to drink and gamble. He tried, after Ma left, but I think it just got to be too much for him, seeing to Gemma and me. Last we heard, he’d got himself kilt.”

  The boy’s words struck close to the bone with Jolie, not only because they were heartrending, but because she’d had a father much like Hank’s. Dennis McKibben had been weak and self-indulgent, far more concerned with his own comforts than the needs of a half-grown daughter. He’d left Jolie with her aunt and uncle when greener pastures beckoned and, just when she’d come to love Nissa and Franklin and feel she had a real home at last, he’d showed up again and dragged her off to fetch and carry for his new wife.

  She reached out to lay one hand over Hank’s. How she wished she could promise him a permanent place on Daniel’s farm, but she didn’t dare. In the first place, the gift wasn’t hers to give and, in the second, experience had already taught her that most situations were temporary, whether they were good or bad.

  “I’d still like to hear your whole name,” she said quietly.

  “It’s Wagner,” Hank confessed.

  Jolie offered him a handshake. “How do you do, Mr. Hank Wagner?” she smiled. “I’m Jolie McKibben Beckham, and it’s grand to know you.”

  A shy grin broke over Hank’s face. “I wish Gemma and me could be Beckhams, too,” he admitted, and Jolie took him into her arms and held him. She wished the same thing, but she didn’t hold out much hope that Daniel would change his mind about sending Hank and Gemma back where they came from. He probably had all he could do to put up with an outlaw wife, without stirring two abandoned children into the mix.

  “I reckon I’ll go and see if we missed any of the eggs when we gathered them this morning,” Hank said, when Jolie ruffled his hair and released him from her hug.

  “You do that.” She smiled.

  It was only after Hank was gone that she allowed herself to cry.

  By supper time, there were a dozen men milling around in the yard, smoking cheroots and pipes. Jolie set out a hearty meal of fried ham, boiled potatoes, biscuits, and buttery corn, and the workers loaded up their plates and went back outside to eat in the grass. Over the sound of their laughter and talk, Jolie listened for the clamor of Daniel’s wagon trundling up the drive.

  When the sun went down, a little after nine o’clock, lantern light flickered cheerfully in the barn windows and one of the men played a sad ballad on a mouth harp. It gave Jolie a mournful feeling, even though she had Gemma and Hank for company.

  Once she’d told them a made-up story, however, and tucked them into bed for the night, the loneliness grew more poignant. Jolie went to stand in the darkened parlor, at the window, glumly watching the empty road.

  “Damn you, anyway, Daniel Beckham,” she muttered, and just as she would have turned away, she saw a jostling light in the distance. A soaring sensation lifted her heart, but that didn’t dampen her indignation at the way she’d been treated.

  She was sitting in the kitchen, wearing a cotton nightdress and brushing her waist-length hair by the glow of a single lamp, when Daniel came in and hung up his hat. His gaze skittered past her, never quite touching.

  “I see the men are here.” He went to the stove, opened the door of the warming oven, and peered in.

  Jolie smiled to herself. He was becoming accustomed to having a woman around again, even if it was only to cook and clean. And no smell of whiskey or perfume clung to his clothes. “I didn’t save you anything to eat, Mr. Beckham. You said you’d be having supper in town.”

  “They give you one puny pork chop and two green beans in that place and call it a meal,” he muttered, frowning as he wrenched open the bread box to find only a few crumbs inside.

  “What place is that?” Jolie asked sweetly, brushing her hair again.

  “The Jefferson Hotel.” By the time Daniel replied, he was in the pantry, and his voice echoed off the walls. He came out carrying a jar of pickles, a wedge of cheese, and four oatmeal cookies.

  Jolie sighed nonchalantly, just as though they’d never had words. “It was my understanding that they offer food in all the saloons,” she observed. As well as bawdy women, she added in her mind.

  Daniel pulled back a chair with one foot and sat. “I didn’t have time for that,” he said distractedly, glowering at the loot he’d spread on the table. “Great scot, woman, will you find me something decent to eat?”

  She took leftover ham from the larder, along with a loaf of bread, and quickly made sandwiches. “I’ll get the milk from the well house,” she said, reaching for the doorknob.

  The chair Daniel had been sitting in scraped against the floor as he rose with lightning quickness and grasped her by the wrist. “Not dressed like that, you won’t,” he hissed. “There are men out there.”

  Jolie was secretly pleased. “I forgot,” she lied, with a bright smile. Actually, she’d figured the field hands were all in the barn, sleeping.

  “Stay right here!” Daniel ordered, waggling a finger under her nose. He got out the crockery pitcher and left the house. When he returned, Jolie had finished grooming her hair, and she knew it gleamed like new honey in the soft lantern light. She did an inner pirouette when Daniel ran his eyes over her and then turned hastily away. “I thought you’d be in bed by now,” he said hoarsely.

  His wife engaged in a broad and somewhat theatrical yawn, then made a crooning sound as she stretched her arms high above her head. “I guess I should be,” she agreed good-naturedly. “After all, breakfast time comes early, and I’ve got to earn my keep. Good night, Mr. Beckham.”

  “Jolie.”

  She stopped and waited in silence, afraid to turn around and meet Daniel’s gaze because she could feel it burning into her back.

  There was a long pause, and then he bit out a reluctant, “Good night.”

  Too proud to reveal her disappointment, Jolie left the kitchen without replying and made her way up the stairs to her empty bed.

  She was filled with confusion and hurt as she lay down, and when she heard the kitchen door close in the distance, she rose and hurried to the window. In the moonlight, she saw Daniel standing outside the cook wagon where he’d slept the night before. He glanced in the direction of the maple trees guarding the graves of his lost family, and Jolie stepped back just as he lifted his gaze to her. When he started toward the house, she stopped breathing.

  She was pretending to be asleep when the door creaked open, but she could see Daniel from under her lashes, standing in the chasm, his towering frame bathed in the thin silver gleam of the moon. When he crossed the room, took her arm, and yanked her out of bed, Jolie gasped in surprise.

  “Stop it!” he ordered, through his teeth. “Damn it, whatever it is you’re doing, stop. God help me, I’m losing my mind!”

  Even though he hadn’t hurt her, Jolie resented being dragged so rudely to her feet, and she wrenched free of Daniel’s grasp. “I’m not doing anything!” she sputtered, in an angry whisper, smoothing her nightgown with the palms of her hands.

  His strong fingers clasped her chin, and his normally serene eyes glittered as he searched her face, as if expecting to find something there to damn her with. “There are children in this house,” he said despairingly, and Jolie knew Daniel was reminding himself of that fact, not her.

  Jolie sensed that silence would make her case better than any argument, so she held her tongue.

  Daniel surprised her yet again by sweeping her suddenly up into his arms. Without so much as a word of explanation, he carried her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the dining room and kitchen, and then into the night.

  Stars shimmered and twinkled overhead, and crickets filled the air with their peculiar chattering chirp. The field hands weren’t stirring in the barn, but a single, low lament from the milk cow came through the weathered boards.

  Daniel stared down at Jolie for a long moment, as though thinking he should know her from somewhere but couldn’t recall just where, then carried her inside the cook wagon and laid her on the cot.

  A pulse leaped at the base of Jolie’s throat. “Daniel, what … ”

  The door closed, and the inside of that wagon was instantly and completely dark. Daniel didn’t answer, but she heard his boots thump against the floor as he kicked them off, and there was a jingle of change in the pocket of a discarded garment. When he stretched out over her, careful not to crush her under his weight, she felt the dry warmth of his skin even through her nightgown. Her body, held in a state of frustrated arousal all through the day, thanks to one kiss in the barn that morning, caught fire in the space of an instant.

  Jolie bit her lip to keep from moaning in anticipation when Daniel guided her gown up over her hips, waist, and breasts, then pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. With a disconsolate murmur, he kissed his way across the width of her collarbone and then took her nipple hungrily into his mouth.

  Her response was primitive and completely involuntary. She arched her head back, gasping for breath, and gave a long, guttural groan. When she raised herself to Daniel, he took her in a long, smooth stroke that made her eyes open wide. The sides of her knees peeled away from his hips, and Daniel covered her mouth with his just in time to muffle her unrestrained shout of pleasure.

  Jolie’s traitorous body writhed beneath Daniel’s; she flung her very soul into every parry, and her flesh quivered with longing each time he pulled back from her. While the strange joy reached its crescendo, Daniel nibbled idly at Jolie’s neck, holding one hand over her mouth so that her ecstasy could remain a private thing.

  When at long, long last she was still with exhaustion and satiation, Daniel smoothed her damp hair back from her face with both hands and drank kisses from her lips. Jolie felt his arms move past her head to grip something, and after every withdrawal, he thrust himself into her again. Each contact was deeper than the one before, and Jolie was sure their spirits fused when a great shudder finally racked Daniel and he released his seed.

  It seemed an eternity had passed before she was able to think clearly again, but when that faculty returned, a singular, venomous pain came with it. Daniel had wanted Jolie, and he had plainly enjoyed having her, but even though he’d made his vows and signed a legal paper, he didn’t consider himself truly married to her. If he had, he would have felt no need to make love to her outside his house, as though there were something illicit in their intimacy.

  Only when he turned to kiss Jolie’s cheek did he feel the tears on her face.

  “What is it?” he asked, and Jolie had to give him credit for sounding like he really gave a damn. “Jolie?”

  She didn’t want him to know she was weeping for him; her entire body shook with the effort to hold in her sobs, even though it was already too late.

  Daniel sighed when she didn’t answer, and shifted so that he was lying on his back on the narrow cot. In almost the same motion, he lifted Jolie so that she sat astraddle of his hips. When she was settled on his masculinity, he slid calloused hands gently up her rib cage to cradle her breasts, then down to caress her bottom.

  All the while, Jolie continued to cry.

  “Tell me,” he urged gruffly.

  She didn’t dare frame her misery into words even in the privacy of her mind, let alone speak of it aloud. She dashed at her eyes with the back of one hand and still the tears came.

  Lord knew, Jolie’s life had been tangled enough before she’d met Daniel. Now, she would have to hurt until the end of her days, knowing he was ashamed of her, that she was a concubine to him, not a wife.

  Finally, he closed his fingers over Jolie’s hips and raised her to the tip of his shaft. Then he lowered her slowly onto him. “If this is the only comfort you’ll let me give you,” he said, “so be it.”

  Jolie trembled as a flood of new sensation crashed over her, bent forward to grasp Daniel’s shoulders lest she go plunging skyward like an arrow shot from a strong, taut bow. She was sure she couldn’t bear the fierce sweetness of giving herself so thoroughly again. The response was already starting, building momentum with each stroke of his rod.

  Her breathing became labored, and a thin film of perspiration broke over her flesh. Jolie knew she was going to explode within seconds, and she feared she would never be able to gather herself back into a single being again. “Daniel!” she cried, and her nails delved deep into his skin as she fought to hold back the tide of her own responses.

  It was hopeless, and she buckled violently on top of Daniel, a low, continuous cry rumbling from her throat. He raised her high off the cot when his time came, with one powerful thrust of his hips, and Jolie reveled in his involuntary cry of surrender and rode his passion into a white-hot blaze of release.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she finally returned to her right mind and realized that Daniel had pulled her nightgown over her head again, that he was lifting her, carrying her through the now-quiet darkness toward the house. She was too dazed to ask questions, of him or of herself. She could do no more than rest her head against his shoulder and close her eyes again, for Daniel had demanded all her stamina, and she had given it.

  He brought her up the stairs to his room and laid her gently on the bed.

  More than anything in the world, Jolie wanted Daniel to prove her earlier perceptions wrong, to lie down beside her, enfold her in his arms, and go to sleep. Instead, he covered her with a light blanket, bent to graze her forehead with his lips, and walked out.

  She whispered his name, but then her eyelids fell and she dropped to the depths of consciousness, as though weighted by stones.

  In the morning there was no time to grieve for her shattered hopes; fourteen men were awaiting a meal. Before they’d finished their coffee, Joe Culley arrived, driving a team of eight mules and pulling a cumbersome threshing machine behind him. Beside him was Nan, wearing a calico dress and a practical bonnet, clearly ready to help with the work.

  She helped Jolie load the last of the supplies into the cook wagon, and the two women walked along behind as Deuter drove it deep into the fields. Hank and Gemma were riding inside, peering out through the window in the rear and waving.

  “Fast work,” Nan said with a grin, gesturing toward the children. “Anybody who didn’t know better would think they belonged to you and Daniel.”

  Just the mention of his name made Jolie’s heart twist painfully, and she didn’t even have to look at that blasted cook wagon to remember how expertly Daniel had loved her on its narrow cot.

  “I wish they were ours,” she said numbly. And then she explained how Hank and Gemma had stowed away in the wagon before Daniel left Spokane, since she and Nan had been too busy washing and packing dishes before.

  Nan smiled sadly. “Dan hardened his heart, after Ilse and the babies died. He went right on going to church and all, but I’m pretty sure he stopped believing in just about everything and everybody.” She paused to retie her bonnet strings, her expression thoughtful. “The Good Book says the Lord works in mysterious ways, and it would be my guess that He’s up to something right here in Prosperity.”

  The cook wagon rumbled to a stop in a little copse of fir trees, where a spring bubbled and a load of firewood had been stacked. Shading her eyes with one hand, Jolie turned her attention to Daniel and the beginning of the harvest. Cacophony reigned, what with the braying of at least a dozen mules, the shouts of men, and the creaking metal wheels of the big wheat-cutting machine. An apparatus Jolie pegged as a thresher was also being erected, and more strange equipment was arriving by the moment, heralded by great clouds of dust.

  After sternly cautioning Gemma and Hank about going near the machinery, Jolie sent them to carry firewood and then set about preparing her first cook-wagon meal. It would be noon before she knew it, and all those men would be ravenous.

  Keeping the door of the closed vehicle open, despite buzzing flies, Jolie put kindling and old newspaper into the stove and struck a match to it. While she was doing that, Nan started getting out the plates and platters and pans they’d packed so carefully at the farmhouse.