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  “Then it’s settled. You’re never too young for fleas.”

  Heather snatched the newspaper out of his hands. “You’re far too distracted. Eat. Those sheep won’t shear themselves.”

  “You don’t mind being the wife of a sheep farmer?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Because it’s not as manly and tough as cattle ranching.”

  “I don’t care if you raise angora rabbits, as long as you’re happy and we have enough money to attend the flea circus on special occasions and temperance meetings on not-so-special occasions.”

  “Your birthday is always a special occasion. Perhaps the circus will come through town and we can see the sideshow. Have you ever seen General Tom Thumb?”

  “I have not.”

  “Then we’ll go to the sideshow on your birthday.” He stood and snatched a last piece of bacon from his plate. “I’ll be late tonight. We’re burning rubbish this afternoon.”

  He was through the door before she could ask him about his own birthday. She lingered at the door, watching him stride toward the barn. Her heart warmed. She’d never been much for silly games, but after seeing Sterling’s success with Gracie, she’d make an effort to engage with the child in a less serious manner.

  For the rest of the morning, she concentrated less on her chores and more on having fun. They laughed and played, and the morning sped by.

  As she laid Gracie down for her afternoon nap, a sense of peace slipped over Heather. She pushed the future aside and concentrated on the moment. Despite her protests to Sterling, his words had taken root, and she couldn’t shake the fear that someone might come looking for Gracie. The nightmares during her illness had brought those fears to the surface.

  Anybody’s name might have been printed on that Return of Birth. She was fortunate she’d been paired with Sterling.

  Her gaze rested on the newspaper. The weather report called for mild temperatures, but there was always the chance of a tornado tearing through their lives.

  * * *

  The burn pile was located far from the barn, and an equal distance from the house. Sterling watched the fire closely. The air was still, with only the barest hint of a breeze ruffling the prairie grasses poking through the light layer of snow. There was little chance of the fire spreading this time of year, but he kept a close watch on the flames anyway, to be safe.

  Dusting his hands together, he inhaled a deep breath. He and Dillon had always been responsible for burning the household rubbish, and the task reminded him of the days when they’d gotten along as children.

  Before him, a week’s worth of household trash burned merrily, along with several pieces of broken furniture and some periodicals he’d discovered rotting in the barn loft. Flecks of ash caught the wind and blackened the snow surrounding the pile.

  Joe and Price carted a broken push wagon from the shed and tossed the splintered wood on the pile. The wheels smoked before the flames caught. Joe stretched his hands toward the welcoming heat.

  “Where is Woodley?” Sterling asked.

  Price and Joe exchanged a glance.

  “Gone,” Price said.

  Sterling stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean he’s gone?”

  “I thought you knew,” Price said, his expression dark. “Otto and Woodley had a disagreement. Woodley left.”

  An ember sparked the grass at his feet, and Sterling snuffed out the weak flame with the toe of his boot. “What kind of disagreement?”

  “Don’t know,” Joe said. “It was between him and Otto.”

  Sterling made a sound of frustration. “Who’s doing the cooking?”

  “Don’t know. I’m hoping you’ll tell us.”

  Sterling surveyed the fire and noted the buckets of water the men had carried close by in case of an emergency. “I need to speak with Otto.”

  Price and Joe exchanged another glance, and the hairs on the back of Sterling’s neck lifted. They’d all been working together just fine when Heather was ill. What had sparked the sudden disagreement?

  He discovered Otto in his rooms in the bunkhouse. The foreman sat in a chair, his reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, a book open before him.

  Upon seeing Sterling, Otto snapped the book shut and whipped the glasses from his nose. “What brings you here?”

  Sterling glanced around the small but well-appointed space. Otto kept a shelf full of books, and the walls were lined with harnesses and other tack. The room hadn’t changed much since his childhood, save for a new selection of spines on the bookshelf.

  “What happened with Woodley?” Sterling asked.

  Otto rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this soon. I know you’ve been busy, what with the missus being sick and all.”

  “She’s doing much better.”

  The memory of her warm laughter had chased away the chill of the morning air. For the first time since their hasty marriage, he’d felt a sense of kinship with her, a sense of a shared purpose.

  “Good to hear,” Otto said.

  “You haven’t told me about Woodley.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I know how stubborn you are. I was only trying to protect you. Woodley was the one spreading rumors about the missus.”

  Sterling dropped onto a straight-backed chair set before the potbellied stove. “Are you certain?”

  In the three months he’d known the ranch hand, he’d never heard Woodley speak ill of anyone.

  “I’m certain.” Otto set his glasses on the closed ledger. “I heard him myself. He went into town to fetch some supplies. He must not have known that I’d gone into town, as well. I overheard him talking to Mrs. Dawson in the general store.”

  Sterling braced his hands on his knees and straightened his elbows. “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Who knows why a man does anything? Maybe it made him feel important. Believe me, I almost wish I hadn’t gone into town that day. I wish I hadn’t been buying a new pair of boots while Woodley was flapping his lips not one aisle over. We argued, and I asked him to leave. Didn’t mean to overstep my bounds, but you were busy with the missus.”

  “The decision was yours to make,” Sterling said. “You did the right thing.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “We’ll have to rotate the cooking.”

  “About that. I thought maybe the missus could pitch in, just until we find someone new. Joe and Price can’t cook for nothing, and I only know how to make beans and biscuits.”

  Sterling pushed back in his seat. “I don’t want to wear her down.”

  Her recent illness had left him shaken, and her nightmares haunted his own dreams.

  “We’ll have to do something.”

  “Let me think about it. Problems are cropping up faster than mushrooms after a spring rain.”

  “That’s the way of things,” Otto said. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

  “What about—”

  From outside the window, a shout of distress interrupted his question. Sterling shot to his feet. His body poised for action, he turned on his heel to face the danger inherent in such a call. He slapped the wooden door with his palm and it flung open, banging it against the siding. Joe and Price danced around in a frenzy. Price leaned forward, his shirtsleeves ablaze.

  Sterling crossed the distance in a dead run, Otto lagging behind him. He snatched a pail of water near the burn pile. Stumbling, water splashing out of the pail, he hoisted the bucket and poured the contents over Price’s hands and arms.

  Joe grasped a second bucket and followed suit. Price was white-faced, his hands a brilliant red from the heat of the blaze. His shirtsleeves were blackened and wet, hanging from his forearms in limp
tatters.

  Thankfully, the water had done the trick.

  Summoned by the commotion, Heather darted toward them. Sterling eased his arm beneath the injured man’s armpit and supported his slumping weight.

  “Help me get him inside,” he called to Joe.

  Heather took in the scene and set her jaw in a determined line. “How can I help?”

  “Pour some fresh water and gather some towels. We’ll be right behind you.”

  He limped the distance, Price’s weight heavy against his side. “What happened, Joe?”

  Joe loped beside them. “The wind caught up an ember and it snagged on his shirt. It flared up before I could blink. When Price brushed at the fire, it went and caught the other sleeve too.”

  “You’d think I was a greenhorn,” Price muttered between grunts of pain. “I know better than to get that close to the fire.”

  “They call them accidents for a reason,” Sterling said, his concern about the blisters rising on the man’s arms growing. “There’s no one to blame.”

  By the time they pushed through the back door, Heather had the sink filled with water and was filling another bucket.

  She glanced up at their noisy arrival. “Gracie is napping, but don’t worry about keeping quiet. When she’s plum tired like she is today, you could run a locomotive through the house and she’d sleep through the noise.”

  Sterling propped up Price before the sink and let the cascade flow over his hands and arms. The ranch hand hissed in pain. Sterling stood behind him. He gripped the man’s shoulders, forcing him to submerge the limbs.

  “Thanks for putting out the fire.” Price swayed as he spoke. His face was deathly pale, his eyes feverish with pain as he surveyed the welts on his hands and arms. “It’s not so bad.”

  Heather’s expression was sympathetic. “I’ll fix up the spare bedroom.”

  “The bunkhouse is good enough for me,” the injured man protested, lifting his arms from the water. The skin had already begun to blister. “I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. I just need some bandages to put over the blisters.”

  Heather drew in a deep breath, but Sterling beat her to the draw. “You’ll do as the lady of the house says and let us tend the burns. I don’t need you out with an infection for weeks. We’re already short a hand.”

  Heather’s gaze sharpened. “Why are we short a hand?”

  “Long story. Woodley is gone.”

  Heather wrung out the wet towels, draping them over Price’s hands and arms. “You might as well stay in the house, Price. I’ll take over the cooking until someone else is hired.”

  Her voice was gentle and her touch careful as she tended the man.

  “Don’t take on too much,” Sterling warned. “I don’t want you getting sick again.”

  She tilted her chin at a mutinous angle. “If you’re worried, you can have Joe help with the biscuits.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. He laughed, the sound rusty, as though forced past a lump in his throat. “We’ll all pitch in and help out.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Price said. Courteous as ever, he bobbed his head, then stumbled. Sterling tightened his hold and half carried the injured man toward the table.

  Heather took the chair on the opposite side. “I’ll finish wrapping these bandages if you’ll check the spare bedroom. I left a stack of linens at the foot of the bed.”

  Satisfied that Heather had the situation under control, Sterling went out the door, pausing halfway up the kitchen stairs. Price’s accident had left him shaken. In the blink of an eye, he’d gone from laughing to writhing in pain.

  All the disparate feelings he’d been experiencing over the past few weeks were now jumbled together. Heather had brought something to the house that he’d never experienced before. She’d brought love and a sense of peace.

  Price’s accident strengthened his resolve. Despite his fears for the future, she was here now, and he meant the arrangement to be permanent. She might not be able to love him, but there was no reason their friendship couldn’t carry them through the years.

  He’d seen lasting and happy marriages built on less.

  * * *

  With Gracie sleeping, Heather took the opportunity to dismantle the kerosene lantern. She set the slender glass chimney on the table and grasped a towel, then polished the clouded surface. She threaded a new wick through the casing and added lamp oil before replacing the chimney once more.

  Across from her, Price repeated the process on another lantern, his movements hampered by his injuries. His arms were wrapped, with only his fingertips showing. Dr. Jones had come by the previous day and praised her ministrations. The burns were healing well, and there was no sign of infection.

  Having company around the house made the days fly by. Price wasn’t talkative, but he was eager to be useful while he healed.

  He cursed beneath his breath, and she pretended not to notice. The forced confinement was frustrating, and he was coping as best he could. She sensed he was self-conscious about his difficulties.

  She rose from the table. The loaves of bread had depleted rapidly with the addition of the men for dinner. She’d been gradually increasing the amount of food she served, but the men’s appetites appeared bottomless.

  She gathered her supplies and set them on the worktable. “Where are you from, Price? You never said.”

  “Here and there. I was born in Ohio.”

  “Do your parents still live there?”

  “Nah. My ma died and my pa moved to California.” He poured lamp oil into the base, and she held her breath. But he managed the process without soiling his bandages. “He lives up near San Francisco now. What about you? Where are you from?”

  “Pittsburgh. That’s the nice thing about living in a town that’s only thirty years old, like Valentine—at least half the residents are from someplace else.” She dumped several scoops of flour onto the table, then changed her mind. She’d make piecrusts first. “I was originally from Maryland, but I moved to Pittsburgh after the war.”

  “I’ve never been that far east. Don’t think I could stand all the people.”

  She laughed. “If you don’t enjoy the company of other folks, Pittsburgh isn’t the place for you.”

  Footfalls sounded on the back stoop, and she knew without looking that the new arrival was Sterling. She recognized the cadence of his walk.

  He pushed open the door and hung his hat on the peg. She fussed with a bit of hair near her temple and smoothed her hands down her apron. “You’re early.”

  “Thought I’d see if you needed any help with supper.”

  “We’re doing fine. Price has been an invaluable help.”

  The ranch hand grimaced. “I’m slow as molasses in January doing anything. I can’t wait until these bandages come off.”

  Sterling came to stand behind her. “What are you making?”

  “Pie.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck, his whiskers tickling the sensitive skin. “What kind of pie?”

  He smelled of fire and the outdoors, and she pressed one of her hands against his chilled fingers. “You need new gloves.”

  “Not as much as I need food.”

  She giggled and ducked away. “I found some jarred peaches in Woodley’s supplies. I think he canned them himself. I felt guilty going through his belongings, though I don’t suppose he’d care anymore.”

  Sterling straightened and pivoted toward the sink. “Whatever he left is fair game. I’m not chasing down the man for peaches.”

  “I can’t believe he just up and left,” Price said. “I thought he and Otto were getting along better the past few weeks.”

  Reaching for the lard, Heather paused. “I didn’t realize those two were at odds.”

  “I shou
ldn’t have said anything.” The tips of Price’s ears reddened. “I didn’t mean to gossip.”

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Heather said. “I can’t imagine anyone arguing with Otto.”

  Price bent his head over the lantern. “Yep.”

  His clipped answer gave her pause, and she turned toward Sterling. He was focused on rinsing his hands in the washbasin and wasn’t paying them any mind. Otto had always been polite and kind to her, and she couldn’t imagine him arguing with anyone. Yet something in Price’s demeanor gave her pause. She’d gotten to know him over the past few days, and his reaction didn’t feel right.

  He glanced up and caught her staring. “I’ll carry the lanterns back upstairs.”

  “Can you look in on Gracie?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Long after he’d gone, she remained, staring at his vacant chair.

  Sterling touched her shoulder and she started. “What?”

  “What are thinking about?”

  “I don’t think he likes Otto.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know.” She brushed the stray lock of hair from her forehead once more. “Didn’t his reaction seem odd to you?”

  “I think I know why.” Sterling licked his thumb and rubbed a spot on her forehead. “You’ve got flour in your hair.”

  Self-conscious, she brushed at the spot. “Have I got it?”

  “No.” He offered one of his lopsided the grins, the kind that made her skin tingle and her toes curl. “Let me help.”

  He stood before her, her eyes level with the second stamped button of his coat. Unable to resist, she ran her finger along the lettering. His touch gentle, he sifted through the strands of hair at her temple, carefully brushing away the flour.

  Sterling caught her hand. “Apparently Woodley was the source of gossip in town. Otto overheard him in the general store. That’s probably why Price didn’t want to say anything. I think he’s sweet on you.”

  She pulled away and pressed her hands against her warm cheeks. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m certain you’ve had more than one student who was sweet on you.”