At dawn, Hanna’s father and older brother, Alvar, would gather their tools and any scraps of building material they could find to set up a shelter for the family. Others would do the same. It was what good neighbors did—and who could say which of them would be struck by the next disaster?
The stew, made from the skimpy meat of a rabbit Alvar had snared that morning, along with some vegetables from Inga’s garden, was a treat for the hungry family. Served with plenty of fresh biscuits, it was just enough for the seven of them. The parents ate sparingly to make sure there would be plenty for the children. Alvar, barely eighteen, and Hanna did the same. The younger children, Britta, almost thirteen, Axel, ten, and Gerda, eight, filled their plates. There would have been one more child at the table, but the baby boy, born after Hanna, had only lived a few days. Much as Inga loved her blue-eyed, flaxen-haired brood, Hanna knew that her mother still mourned the little one she’d lost.
The children ate in silence, as was the custom. But for the parents, the evening meal was a time to catch up on the events of the day.
“I was talking with Stefan on the way home from the fire,” Big Lars said. “He told me that somebody found a broken lantern in that burned shack. That means the fire was started on purpose while the family was in town.”
“Are you sure?” Inga had gone pale. Hanna knew what her mother was thinking. If she and the children hadn’t gone home early, with Alvar driving the wagon, their place could have been the one that was burned.
“That fire didn’t start itself, Inga. Some cowboys at the dance almost beat up Ole Hanson. They left after a man stopped them. Ole thinks they might have gone to start the fire. Those cowboys hate us. They blame us for the bad cattle market. It isn’t true, but they don’t care, as long as they’ve got somebody to punish.”
“We could be next,” Inga said. “Anybody could be. And maybe next time it won’t be just a fire. They’ll start hurting people, even killing them.”
The younger children had stopped eating. They were staring at their mother.
“We’ll just need to keep our eyes open,” Big Lars said. “Keep the shotgun loaded and handy. Watch for any strangers coming around. If you see anybody you don’t know, assume they’re an enemy.”
“So the cowboys and ranchers are our enemies now?” Hanna asked, thinking of the handsome man who’d almost kissed her.
“Yes,” her father said. “We can’t trust any of them. Remember that.”
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE WEST, THE LIGHT HAD FADED FROM THE SKY. HERE AND THERE, the first stars emerged among the wispy clouds. The evening breeze carried the odors of smoke and charred earth—or was it his own hair and clothes that Blake could smell as he rode? After fighting the fire, he was too tired to wonder.
His horse needed no guiding. The ten-year-old buckskin gelding knew where to turn onto the rutted wagon road that led across the pastures and wound up the bluff to the sprawling log home at the top. Blake could lose himself in thought, knowing the trusted animal would take him home.
Tonight, he had enough on his mind to keep him occupied all the way. He flexed his hand, feeling the soreness as he closed his fingers into a fist. He’d prided himself on being a man who could hold his temper. But that Calder cowboy betting that he could take a young woman’s innocence—probably by rape—had lit his already-short fuse. When his fist had crunched into the bastard’s jaw, it had felt damned good.
How many men had looked at her golden hair, big, cornflower-blue eyes, and womanly figure and wished for the same thing? Right now, Blake wanted to punch them all, including Mason.
Strange that a girl he’d barely met, with a name he didn’t even know—a girl he’d never see again except in passing—could rouse that pitch of emotion.
But right now he had even more urgent concerns than the girl.
As the road began its winding ascent, Blake could see the edge of the moon rising over the eastern hills. A coyote howled from the top of a ridge—a lonesome sound but one he’d grown up with and had come to love. It was the sound of home.
He thought of the family who’d lost everything—the man’s desperate look, the wife’s tears, and the wails of the young children. He could only hope that someone had taken them in tonight.
He had little doubt that Hobie Evans, the Carmody brothers, and maybe a few of their friends, had started the blaze. But if that was true, Blake asked himself, didn’t that make him partly to blame?
If he hadn’t left the dance to stop those hooligans from tormenting the lone homesteader, and if he hadn’t fired the brothers for their part in it, the disaster might never have happened. The man could have fought, fled, or called for help. Everything might have turned out differently.
Tomorrow the sawmill would be idle, awaiting a new shipment of logs. In the morning he would load up a cart with enough spare wood to frame a new shack, and take it to the site of the burned home. He couldn’t do anything about the wheat crop, but at least he could help the family rebuild, and maybe ease his conscience.
Ahead, at the top of the road he could see the rambling log house that Joe Dollarhide had built for his family. It wasn’t as grand as the Calder mansion or as elegantly finished, but the rugged design was more functional and pleasing to the eye; and its sweeping front porch commanded a view that had no equal.
In the stable, Blake rubbed down his horse, left it with food and water, and walked back to the house. His parents and sister would have seen the smoke from here and would be wondering what had happened. If they were waiting to eat, he could tell them about the fire over dinner.
There were things he wouldn’t be telling them, of course. His mother despised gossip, having been a target herself as a young, unmarried mother. So he wouldn’t mention Webb Calder’s possible involvement with a married woman. And because he knew better than to criticize Mason to his father, he wouldn’t mention the scene with the girl in the white pinafore. But the fire and his suspicions about Hobie and the Carmodys were fair game for dinner talk.
As he mounted the porch, the door flew open. Kristin, his seventeen-year-old sister, stood framed in the lamplight. Tall and slim, with her father’s dark hair and her mother’s earnest violet eyes, she was a stunning beauty. Men might have been swarming around her, but she was a loner, spending most of her time at home, riding her horse, tending the stock, or reading her mother’s treasured books.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” She hurried toward him. “Mother wanted to wait dinner for you. But don’t go in yet. I need to talk to you first.”
An arm’s length away from him, she halted. “God’s garters, Blake, you smell like a burning barn! Mother won’t let you in the house. Go wash up at the pump. Your hair, too. And take off that smelly shirt. I’ll get you a fresh one from inside. Come on. We can talk after you clean up.”
Ignoring her unladylike language, Blake stripped off his shirt, followed her back to the pump, and let her work the handle while he used a sliver of soap to wash his hands, face, and hair and splash the sweat off his chest and shoulders. The water was cold, but the night breeze was warm as he waited for her to bring his clean shirt. By the time she returned minutes later, his skin was dry.