Patrick wanted her for his wife. She knew what was the right thing for her to want, the right thing for her to do. But she didn’t know if she was strong enough to make the proper choice. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to walk away from her heart’s desire. Gavin tipped his chair back until it leaned against the bunkhouse wall. He sipped at the whiskey in the tin cup, his thoughts still back in the main house. Stubs finished pouring his own whiskey and sat in a chair opposite Gavin.

“Jess oughta be in tomorrow. Hope he made it to the line shack ‘fore the storm hit.”

“No reason he shouldn’t have. He knows how to read the sky as good as any cowboy I’ve ever seen.”

“I reckon you’re right.” Stubs took a quick swallow of the golden liquid.

“How’s Pet?”

“She’s going to hurt for a while, but she’s okay.”

“How ‘bout Brina? She was pretty shook up over the little one’s fall.” Gavin finished off the whiskey.

“Fine. She’s fine.”

“Good.” Stubs cocked an eyebrow, as if waiting for Gavin to say more. Instead, Gavin leaned forward, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and poured himself another drink. Stubs rubbed his grizzled chin, his expression pensive.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I been doin’ me a lot of thinkin’. Helps pass the time when the winters get long.” He stared at a spot on the floor and sipped his whiskey.

“Been thinkin’ that a man don’t often meet just the right girl for him. Most settle for something’ less. Sorta like you and Dru. Don’t get me wrong, Gav. Nicer woman I ain’t never known, but if she hadn’t been ailin’ and needin’ a pa for them young’ns, you two wouldn’t never tied the knot the way you did.” Gavin stared hard at his foreman and friend, not sure he cared for where Stubs’ thoughts were taking them.

“You gave that woman all the carin’ she could’ve asked for. She was lucky to have you. Yes, sir. Lucky, she was. And Dru knew it too, don’t think she didn’t.” Gavin remained silent. Stubs shook his head thoughtfully.

“All kinds of love in this world. You ever thought about it? All kinds. Kind you got for them girls in there. Kind you had for Dru. Shoot. Guess there’s even the kind you might have for an old coot of a friend like me. Yes, sir. All kinds.” Stubs got up from his chair and walked over to the window. He pushed aside the curtains Dru had made in an effort to make the bunkhouse more homey and stared outside for a long time before speaking again.

“No man oughta feel guilty for lovin’ people in different ways. Dru

knew that. She never quit lovin’ Charlie. Loved him right to the last.” He turned and this time his gaze met Gavin’s.

“She loved you too, an, she never expected or wanted nothin’ from you that you didn’t give to her. Except one thing, Gav.” He was reluctant to ask.

“What was that?”

“She wanted you to find what she and Charlie had. She wanted that real bad like.” Gavin let out a long sigh.

“I know.” He thought of Rachel, sitting near the fire back at the house.

“But sometimes the things a person wants don’t happen.”

“Sometimes,” Stubs agreed softly, then added, “and sometimes they do.” Rachel was listening for his return. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t, that it was merely the sound of the storm that claimed her attention, but she knew better. Was Gavin going to spend the night in the bunkhouse with Stubs? Perhaps some warm milk would help her fall asleep, she thought as she rose silently from her bed. She slipped into her robe and tightened the belt around her waist. A flicker of light from the sitting room fireplace faintly illuminated her path to the bedroom door. She paused long enough beside Petula’s bed to see that the child was sleeping peacefully. Satisfied, she left the room, closing the door behind her. She didn’t bother to light a lamp. The firelight was ample to find her way to the icebox. She filled a small kettle with the white liquid, then carried it to the fireplace where she hung the kettle on the chimney crane and swung it over the low-burning flames. She grabbed some wood from the wood box and added it to the fire before sitting in the nearest chair and staring into the flames, her thoughts drifting and disjointed. For some reason, she thought of Tucker. She was six years old when she first saw him. Six and very shy. She wasn’t used to being around people. Her early life with Uncle Seth had been a nightmare of shadows and shouting in that old Philadelphia house. But it had at least been familiar. Suddenly she’d been thrust out into a frightening and very unfamiliar world full of strangers. But it wasn’t so frightening when she was with Tucker. She remembered the way he had made her feel, almost from the very beginning. He’d made her laugh. She remembered the night, there on the Oregon Trail, when he’d brought back that rabbit for supper and she’d cried because she’d had a pet rabbit once. He’d told her a story about his old hound dog back in Georgia while he helped her peel the potatoes for the stew, and soon the rabbit was forgotten. If Maggie had been as much mother as sister to Rachel, then Tucker had been the father she’d never known. From the moment they met the Branigans outside Independence, Missouri, Rachel had been surrounded by love. She’d been a witness to what a grand passion meant in a marriage, for no two people had ever loved more than Maggie and Tucker. And she’d been the recipient, along with her nieces and nephews, of parental love. What would her life have been like without Tucker and the rest of the Branigans? She couldn’t imagine. Didn’t want to imagine. Rachel felt a sting of homesickness. She wished she was with Tucker and Maggie right now. She wished she could crawl up into Tucker’s lap and nestle against his chest and have him stroke her hair and tell her stories about that old hound. She wished she was a child, with no more worries than what kind of grades she would get from Miss Creswell on her schoolwork. She heard the moaning of the wind through the chimney and felt the isolation of this place more than she’d ever felt it before. She was a city girl, used to having lots of people around. Now she couldn’t even get to a small town like Challis to buy a hair ribbon or go to church. She was trapped by the winter weather, held captive by the snow. She was alone, with only Gavin and the children for company. Gavin. If she truly had Gavin, she wouldn’t even notice the seclusion. Gavin. What twist of fate had brought him into her life? If she hadn’t been feeling restless… if she hadn’t read that ad in the newspaper… if she hadn’t been so certain that life held something special for her if she’d only go out looking for it. Gavin. Was he even what he seemed? Was he the wonderful husband and father she’d thought him? After all, he’d come to her cabin and… and kissed her while his wife lay dying in the house. She should hate and despise him for it not long for him to do it again. And she did long for him to do it again. Her hands clenched in her lap. Was she so different from him? She’d accepted Patrick’s proposal, yet burned for Gavin’s touch. Should he hate and despise her any less?

“Oh, Gavin,” she whispered. The door flew open allowing entry to a flurry of snowflakes before Gavin shut it quickly, but not before the temperature of the room plummeted dramatically. Rachel shivered as she hopped to her feet, feeling exposed by her secret thoughts. Gavin looked up and found her watching him from beside the fireplace. He felt a warmth surge through him that had nothing to do with the fire on the hearth or the whiskey he’d consumed in the bunkhouse.

“I thought you’d be in bed by now,” he said as he shucked off his coat.

“I was just fixing some warm milk to help me sleep.” Warm milk. How like her. Or was it? Just who was Rachel Harris? Was she the apparent innocent who stood before him now, clothed in a prim, high-collared nightgown and warm robe? Or was she the scheming woman who came willingly to his embrace but promised herself to another man for the wealth he possessed? Perhaps without the whiskey dulling his thoughts, he could have figured it out. Gavin stepped toward the fireplace as he ran his fingers through his wet hair.

“Looks like we’re in for a long winter. Lots more snow falling tonight.” He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose.

“Your milk’s scorched. Can’t you smell it?”

“Oh!” She reached quickly for the chimney crane, swinging the kettle out from the fireplace. Another cry—this one of pain—quickly

followed, and she pulled her fingers to her mouth. He stepped toward her.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, instantly concerned.

“It’s nothing.”

“Here. Let me see.” He took hold of her wrist and drew her hand from her face.

“Really. It’s nothing.” She sounded breathless. In the glow of the fire, he could see the red marks across the pads of her three middle fingers.

“I’ll get some snow to help cool it. It’ll take out the sting.”

“Really, it’s—”

“Sit down, Rachel, while I get the snow.” Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, and he thought she looked terribly fragile at the moment. He felt the pain as if it were his own. He left her, grabbing a pan from a hook in the kitchen and taking it outside to fill with snow. It wasn’t long before he was back, kneeling by her side, instructing her to bury her hand in the icy white crystals.

“It was silly of me,” Rachel said softly. He looked into her eyes and felt the warmth returning to his veins.

“You should be more careful.”

“I will be.” He reached for her free hand and turned it palm up. Where once her hands had been smooth and white, now they were calloused and red.

“You weren’t meant to work this way. You were meant to have servants caring for you.” Patrick had servants who would care for her, he thought as he met her gaze once more. What would happen if he took her in his arms and kissed her? What would happen if he loosened the belt of her robe and ran his hands over the thin fabric of her nightgown? What would happen if he were to cup her breasts in the palms of his hands and feel her heart beat against his fingertips?