With that, Jolie grabbed a dress from the armoire and stockings and underthings from the bureau and slipped behind the changing screen. Her movements were awkward and fury was still pounding at every pulse point, but she managed to put on her clothes.

  When she came out, Daniel was gone.

  Muttering, Jolie washed her face, brushed her hair, braided it into a single plait, and pinned it up in a coronet. Reaching the kitchen a few minutes later, she found Mary already there, with the stove going and the coffee perking. Pancake batter awaited pouring onto the griddle, and fresh bacon had been sliced for the skillet.

  “It’s good to work in a real kitchen again,” the other woman said quietly, averting her eyes for a moment and then looking earnestly into Jolie’s face. “I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty.”

  Jolie knew what it was to cook beans and wild game over a campfire alongside the trail for weeks and months on end, and she had only empathy for Mary. “Fact is, it’s kind of nice not being the one to make breakfast, Mrs. Beckham,” she said.

  Mary smiled, and her green eyes twinkled merrily. “Then we’re agreed, Mrs. Beckham,” she responded.

  By the time Daniel, Deuter, and Enoch came in from attending to the morning chores, their faces and hands glowing red from a scrubbing in icy well water, the meal was on the table. Daniel didn’t once look at Jolie, even though she sat right next to him, and that was just fine by her.

  Enoch occasionally glanced from Daniel to Jolie and back again as he ate, and seemed barely capable of containing his amusement. His eyes danced and it was obvious he wanted to laugh, that inside, he was laughing.

  Jolie was mortified anew, recalling how she’d tossed and moaned beneath Daniel the night before, and the things she’d said that morning in their room.

  It was a relief when the men finally finished eating and went outside to hitch up Enoch’s team. The children trailed sleepily downstairs, first Hank and little Holt, then Ruthie and Gemma.

  When Enoch stuck his head in the door to announce that they’d be heading over to the new place to “get situated,” though, all four scrambled to empty their plates and dash out to the barnyard.

  “Home,” Mary murmured, emerald eyes alight, as she put on her bonnet and tied the calico strings carefully under her chin. “We’re going home.”

  Jolie smiled. Lord knew, she had plenty of troubles of her own, but it was uplifting to see someone else feeling so happy. Hastily, she put the last of the dishes in hot, soapy water to soak—leaving them was unheard-of, but this was a special day—hung up her apron, and followed Mary outside into the sunny September morning.

  Given the rutted road and the worn-out springs on Enoch and Mary’s wagon, it was easier to walk the distance to the neighboring farm than to ride. Mary and Jolie strolled along behind, chatting, while Hank and four-year-old Holt rode astride one of the horses pulling the rig. Ruthie was perched on Enoch’s shoulder and, when Gemma looked longingly from the man and girl to Daniel, he smiled and scooped her up and carried her the same way.

  Jolie felt a sense of celebration, mixed in with all those other emotions, mostly conflicting ones, that made such a tangle inside her. It was fall, the crops were in and, for this little while, anyway, she and Gemma and Hank could pretend to be part of the Beckham family.

  Nan had taken her personal things, clothes and brushes and wedding Bible and such, from the little house, but the basic furnishings were still there. Jolie felt an ache inside as she and Mary dragged the feather mattress outside to air and took the flour-sack curtains down from their hangings of droopy baling twine for washing. Life had a way of changing, like the course of a rushing river, and sometimes it happened in a split second.

  “Enoch tells me Mr. Culley was bitten by a snake,” Mary ventured, sometime later, when the men were carrying in crates and chests and barrels from the overloaded wagon.

  Jolie nodded, a lump thickening in her throat. She missed Joe, with his good-natured whistling and easy manner, and she often pined for the warm chats she and Nan had enjoyed. “It could have been Daniel,” she said, voicing a terror she’d never fully faced before.

  “On the way out here,” Mary said, bracing herself with her forearms against the split-rail fence that enclosed the small corral next to the barn, “a little girl drowned in a river we were crossing. Up by Fort Deveraux, we buried a whole family that died of influenza.” She rested one hand on her protruding stomach and surveyed the crystal blue sky. “I admit to wondering why the good Lord would bring those people through Indian attacks and windstorms and trail accidents, just so they could perish within a stone’s throw of where they meant to get.”

  The remark put Jolie’s troubles into perspective, at least for the moment. “I guess about all we can count on in this life is things changing,” she said. The insight made that lovely, blue-gold day in early autumn seem especially precious, something to be stored away in the heart and cherished during the bitter winter to come.

  Later, Daniel and Enoch went to town to get supplies, taking the boys along, and Mary and little Ruthie curled up together on the sun-warmed feather mattress to nap. Deuter was busy nailing up some loose boards inside the barn.

  So it was that Gemma and Jolie set out for home alone, hand in hand, their black shoes scuffing up dust as they walked.

  “Me and my brother will be going away soon,” the little girl announced, stringing more words together in that single sentence than Jolie had ever heard her use all at once.

  Jolie was careful not to answer too quickly. “I see,” she said, when they’d gone a little distance and the familiar farmhouse was in sight. “I guess that was why the two of you were hiding in Enoch and Mary’s wagon yesterday.”

  Gemma nodded solemnly. “Hank figured they was going to Californy.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Jolie replied, her tone thoughtful, her manner inviting more confidences.

  The child looked up into Jolie’s face, her weathered little soul clearly visible in her eyes. “I reckon you and Mr. Dan don’t want us,” she said, shrugging one small shoulder as though not being wanted didn’t matter.

  Jolie averted her eyes, silently cursing Daniel Beckham, once again, for his stubborn will and hard heart. It was a long time before she could trust herself to speak. “There isn’t a better little girl in the whole of this earth than you,” she finally said. “So don’t you go thinking no one wants you. It’s just that, well, sometimes people can’t have what they wish for, even if it’s the fondest hope of their heart.”

  Gemma’s fingers curled around Jolie’s, grubby and strong. “Maybe you could take me back to that church place,” she said, with touching dignity. “Hank says the Jesus-man lives there. You and I, we could find Him and ask if He wouldn’t change Mr. Dan’s mind about us staying. Then we could go to school and everything.”

  A tear slipped down Jolie’s cheek, no doubt leaving a trail in the layer of dust covering her face. She wiped it away quickly with the sleeve of her dress. “We’ll just bring the subject up when you say your prayers tonight,” she promised.

  At home, Jolie made ham sandwiches and dished up bowls of canned peaches, and she and Gemma sat down on the back step to eat. Leviticus wandered over and meowed plaintively until he got a share of the tangy smoked meat. Gemma was generous, and when both she and the tom had had their fill, Jolie put the little girl down on the parlor settee for a short nap.

  She was standing by the mantlepiece, looking at the framed picture of Daniel and Ilse on their wedding day, when she heard the back door open and close again. And in spite of the harsh words she and Daniel had exchanged, in spite of the fact that he would rather have a paper likeness of Ilse than a living, breathing wife, Jolie’s heart did a little leap at the prospect of seeing him again.

  “Daniel?” she called, her voice soft because Gemma was already sleeping, smoothing her hair and turning toward the doorway with a smile she just couldn’t keep to herself.

  But it wasn’t Daniel towering in the passage between the dining room and the parlor. No, Blake Kingston stood there, one shoulder braced against the woodwork, looking like the downtrodden outlaw he was in his filthy canvas duster, worn boots, and seedy old hat.

  Jolie instantly positioned herself between Blake and the child lying on the settee.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, in a stunned whisper. She felt as though all her blood had drained away into the floorboards, leaving her weak. A glance into the oval mirror over the fireplace told her her skin was waxen.

  Blake pushed himself away from the doorjamb, sparing Jolie a foolish, cocky little smile, and strolled across the floor to bend down and twine some of Gemma’s golden hair around one finger.

  The child stirred slightly but didn’t awaken, and Jolie’s heart hammered to a stop, then started again.

  “She looks enough like you,” Blake speculated, still hovering over Gemma, “that folks would believe she was yours.”

  “Get out,” Jolie breathed, taking his arm. “Now, before Daniel comes back and finds you here … ”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Blake answered, grinning as he allowed himself to be steered out of the parlor and back toward the kitchen. “Rowdy’s out in the barn, keeping a lookout from the loft window.”

  Jolie shivered, just as though a ghost had run an icy finger down her spine. It didn’t take much to make Rowdy kill—he’d proved that by shooting down the banker the day of the robbery—and Daniel and Hank could step into his sights at any moment.

  Blake smirked at Jolie as he drew his pistol from its holster and gestured toward the stove. “Pour me some coffee,” he said.

  Jolie smoothed her skirts with sweat-dampened palms and obeyed with as much dignity as possible. “I declare, you and Rowdy must want to be caught,” she fretted, taking a clean mug down from the shelf.

  The man she’d once believed to be her friend swung a kitchen chair around backward and sat astraddle of the seat. He pushed the brim of his hat back with the barrel of his forty-five. “You might put a little whiskey into that, if the farmer keeps any around.”

  Inspiration struck Jolie in the instant after he’d spoken. “There’s some in the pantry,” she said easily, hoping the idea she’d just had wasn’t glowing in her face like a beacon as she moved toward that small room.

  Blake was clearly thinking about the liquor he craved, rather than the fact that Jolie would be out of his sight for a few moments. “Just hurry it up.” He thrust his pistol back into the holster. “Me and Rowdy get a mite nervous hanging around here.”

  In the privacy of the pantry, Jolie added a generous dollop of liquid from a brown bottle Daniel had once shown her, then poured in three fingers of whiskey in the hope of masking the taste of the other ingredient.

  “Then why do you keep on coming back?” Jolie inquired moderately, carrying the mug to the kitchen and pouring in strong coffee from the pot on the stove.

  Blake helped himself to both sugar and cream when Jolie set the cup down in front of him, and she was pleased, but she was also scared. She was taking a tremendous risk, trying to trick the outlaw this way, and there was no telling what he’d do if he figured out what she was up to.

  He took a sip of the brew and closed his eyes. Jolie stared at him, holding her breath and praying he wouldn’t taste the laudanum in the coffee.

  Only after the fact did Jolie pause to wonder what Rowdy might do if her plan to drug Blake into insensibility succeeded. She could only hope the other man would stay at his post in the barn until she got Blake’s pistol away. As for the distinct possibility that Daniel would return at the worst time imaginable, well, Jolie had to leave that to the Lord’s discretion.

  Presently, Blake began to yawn, but he swallowed the potion in a series of greedy gulps, then thumped the mug down hard on the tabletop. “That’s the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. “This time, just give me straight firewater.”

  Figuring whiskey could only help the laudanum along, Jolie hurried obediently into the pantry and snatched up the bottle. By the time she returned, Blake was facedown on the tabletop, snoring fit to rouse Moses himself.

  Fearing a trick all the while, heart hammering, Jolie crept close and hastily snatched the pistol from his holster. Blake snuffled and tried to sit up, but the effort was too much for him, and he collapsed again with a thump. His hat rolled across the table and sailed to the floor.

  Just as Jolie stepped back, the heavy firearm wavering between her clammy palms, the door opened and Rowdy appeared in the chasm.

  “Blake’s caught,” Jolie said bravely, prepared to shoot if that was what she had to do. “There’ll be no saving him, Rowdy Fleet, or yourself either. So you’d better just lay down your gun and put your hands up.”

  Rowdy was shaking his head and grinning feverishly as he backed out the door. A muscle underneath his left eye twitched the whole time. “No woman’s capturin’ me,” he said. “I’d ruther be shot.”

  Since Jolie knew she wouldn’t be able to keep a proper eye on two such dangerous men until help came—even if one of them was only partially conscious—she didn’t even attempt to stop Rowdy from escaping. Only moments later, she heard the sound of pounding hoofbeats and breathed a sigh, grateful that her brash impulse hadn’t gotten her killed. Or Daniel.

  Gemma wandered in, rubbing her eye with the back of one hand and sleepily surveying the unexpected guest passed out at the table. When she looked in Jolie’s direction and saw the forty-five clasped between her hands, her small body stiffened with surprise.

  “Go out to the barn straight away, Gemma,” Jolie said evenly, “and fetch me some baling twine. As much as you can find.”

  The child glanced once more at Blake, who was staring at Jolie with the empty eyes of a deadman, apparently unable to move. Gemma gave him a wide berth as she hurried across to the back door.

  Jolie ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips. “If you see any sign of Deuter or Mr. Beckham, you tell them to get in here as quickly as they can!” she called after the little girl.

  Blake blinked a few times, as though struggling against the drug, and then lapsed back into noisy slumber.

  “I didn’t see Mr. Dan or anybody,” Gemma said, minutes later, when she returned with enough twine to tie down two Gullivers and a Paul Bunyan.

  After setting the gun down on the worktable, far out of Blake’s reach if he should awaken, Jolie hastened to pull his hands behind him and bind them, separately, to the outside rails of the chair back. She tied each of his feet to a table leg and then, just to be sure, she bound him around the waist, too.

  No sooner had she finished the task when she heard a team and wagon clatter into the dooryard. Some husband and protector Daniel Beckham was, showing up when all the excitement was over.

  Carrying the forty-five in the folds of her skirt, Jolie stepped out onto the back stoop to watch Daniel and Deuter climb down from the wagon box while Hank bounded from the back. The minute she saw them, it came to Jolie how scared she’d really been, and she realized for the first time that the front of her dress was soaked with perspiration and tendrils of her hair were clinging to her face and the back of her neck in damp little clumps.

  Before she’d given the matter any further thought, Jolie rushed down the steps and across the yard to fling herself into Daniel’s arms. Gemma was close behind.

  “There’s a man in there tied up at the table,” the child announced solemnly, pointing toward the house. “His horse is in the barn.”

  “Thunderation!” Hank yelled, heading in that direction only to have Deuter catch hold of his collar and yank him back.

  Daniel frowned down at Jolie, more in puzzlement than displeasure, and gingerly pried the pistol from her fingers. “Now, Mrs. Beckham,” he teased, “you’re not the best cook in the world, but I wouldn’t think you’d have to go to quite those lengths to scare up a supper guest.”

  Knotting her hand into a fist, damnably grateful for the feel of his strong arm around her waist, Jolie moved to strike Daniel in the chest. She stopped herself at the last moment. “It’s not funny, Daniel,” she sputtered, gesturing wildly toward the door. “Blake Kingston’s in there.”

  All amusement and quite a lot of the color faded from Daniel’s face. After glancing at Deuter, he checked the chamber of the forty-five and then started for the house.

  “You and Gemma stay here,” he ordered, without troubling to look back.

  Gemma and Jolie disregarded the command and followed the men into the kitchen.

  When Deuter saw the way Jolie had tied Kingston, he gave an irreverent hoot of laughter. “I seen a man trussed up like that once before,” he said. “It was in a whore house, down at Tekoa … ”

  Daniel silenced his hired hand with a stringent look, clasped Blake none-too-gently by the hair, lifted his head, and scowled into the insensible face. “What the hell did you do, Jolie, crown him with a skillet?”

  Calmer now, Jolie folded her arms. “Do you see any blood?” she retorted. “I gave him a dose of medicine with some whiskey and the coffee left over from this morning.” She frowned. “You don’t think it’ll kill him, do you?”

  Daniel let Blake’s head roll back to the tabletop. “Your coffee?” Daniel replied, deadpan. He grinned when Jolie’s face reddened at the insult, then he took out his pocketknife and began to cut away the twine that bound Blake. “I’m surprised she didn’t run a line from his neck to the pump handle,” he said to Deuter.

  Jolie’s eyes had gone so wide they hurt. “You’re not letting him go!”

  The men exchanged a look that Jolie preferred not to interpret.

  “No, Mrs. Beckham,” Daniel replied, at his leisure. He hauled Blake to his feet as easily as Gemma would have grabbed up her doll. “We’re taking him to town for a little visit with the marshal.”

  Jolie moved toward the door, as if she could bar Daniel from passing through it. “Rowdy’s out there somewhere,” she hissed. “He’s probably just waiting for you to drive by in the wagon so he can shoot you and take off with Blake.”