the loss of his wife and daughter had transformed into resentment and anger at the all-powerful God he’d once served.
He could’ve spared them and yet chose not to. Every time he felt the urge to pray or dust off his Bible, he reminded himself of that fact.
Pushing to his feet, he set his cup in the dry sink behind him and crossed to the door, retrieving his hat from the row of hooks. “I’ve gotta go. Got errands in town to tend to.”
Lije stood, as well. “And I have to meet the work crew. We’re framing the chapel windows this morning.”
Work on the official Brave Rock church—which would also be used as a meeting house—had commenced a couple days ago on the western edge of Lije’s claim closest to town. Residents were working in shifts so that everyone shared the load and families weren’t taken from their planting and the building of their own cabins for very long.
“I can spare a few hours this afternoon,” Gideon told Elijah.
The preacher’s jaw dropped. “You’re offering to work on the church?”
Aware of Gideon’s aversion to spiritual matters, his brother hadn’t asked him to pitch in. But Lije worked his fingers to the bone seeing to the needs of this town. Swinging a hammer for a few hours was the least Gideon could do. Besides, it would gain him a reprieve from the feisty widow Montgomery.
“I am. Unless you don’t need me.”
Clint watched the exchange with interest.
Lije picked up his jaw. “Oh, we need you, little brother.” Clapping a hand on Gideon’s shoulder, he grinned big. “What time should we expect you?”
“Around one o’clock. How’s that?”
“Perfect. The men will be returning from lunch then.”
Gideon opened the door.
“Hold up a second.”
Clint shoved his chair back. The gold star pinned to his vest winked in the morning sunlight streaming through the curtainless window. The last shingle of Lije’s one-room cabin had been nailed into place last week, and it lacked those little touches that made a dwelling into a home. Wouldn’t be this way for long, however. He’d seen Alice hemming blue-and-white-checked curtains in preparation for her and Lije’s upcoming nuptials. If the bouquet of daffodils gracing the table—the only spot of color in the room—was any indication, the sweet-natured redhead would have these sparse quarters looking more like a home in no time.
“You should know we’ve had more trouble,” Clint said. “The Ramseys’ barn burned down last night. It was a total loss.”
Lije’s expression turned grave. “There weren’t any fatalities, thank the good Lord.”
Gideon shook his head in disgust. “Did they get all the animals out?”
“All but a milk cow,” Clint supplied. “They were fortunate.”
“Any idea how it started?”
“Not yet. Lars and I are looking into it.” His younger brother’s features hardened. “If it turns out it wasn’t an accident, we’ll find out who the perpetrators are and go after them.”
“These incidents are stirring up suspicion amongst the townsfolk, which is the last thing we need.” Sighing, Lije wearily massaged his neck. If Gideon knew his brother, he’d probably stayed up half the night tending to the Ramsey family’s needs. “Without unity and a sense of brotherhood, what kind of town will Brave Rock be?”
Not a place any decent folk would want to live, Gideon answered silently. If he were still a praying man, he’d ask God for assistance. Since he wasn’t, he’d just have to trust Clint’s prediction. The troublemakers would make a mistake eventually, which would lead to their arrest and, ultimately, peace for Brave Rock’s residents. Hopefully sooner rather than later, before someone got hurt or outright killed.
* * *
“Hold him steady. I’m almost done.” Evelyn’s pencil scraped across the page in light strokes. “I think this one is some type of earless lizard. We’ll look it up tonight before bed.”
Fortunately, she knew exactly which trunk contained their books. Drake had argued against bringing them out here, saying she wouldn’t have time for such unnecessary luxuries, but she’d been adamant. Walt enjoyed studying the pictures in the encyclopedia and almanac. And she wouldn’t dream of leaving her journals behind. They contained drawings and descriptions of all sorts of things—Rose Hill, their church in Virginia, flowers, butterflies and birds she’d encountered—a pictorial history of her life. Of course, Drake hadn’t seen any value in them.
“Done.” She snapped the book closed.
Walt raised the bluish-gray-and-black lizard closer to his face, ran a finger along its spindly spine and gingerly set it on the sloping bank, watching intently as it scurried behind the rocks. Shrugging, he turned to her. Red ringed his mouth, evidence of the berries he’d eaten for dessert. She picked up the basin of dirty dishes and carried it to the stream. Crouching beside him, she dipped a rag in the cool water. “Let’s clean your face, sweetheart. It’s a wonder you didn’t get a tummy ache from all those strawberries.”
Wearing a long-suffering expression, he stood still and let her work. Affection bubbled up in her. He was so beautiful, her little boy. His olive skin, dark, expressive eyes and distinctive features had been handed down from his Russian grandmother, Nancy Petrov Chaucer, just as they had been to Evelyn and her brothers. There wasn’t a single sign of his Montgomery heritage. Was that the reason Drake hadn’t bonded with him?
Sighing, she kissed his cheek, which he rewarded with a tight hug. When he stiffened against her, she leaned back. His eyes were huge. “What’s wrong?”
Twisting, balancing her weight with a splayed hand in the grass, she spotted Gideon’s wagon slowly approaching. There, trailing behind it, was a Guernsey cow much like the one they’d left at Reid’s. That wasn’t Mirabelle, however.
Taking Walt’s hand, she stood and watched as the aloof cowboy eased his team to a stop in front of the stable. After setting the brake, he climbed down and, striding to the cow, untethered her and led her across the field in their direction. What in the world?
The brim of his black Stetson cast his eyes in shadow; his stubble-covered jaw and chin were set in grim lines. As if she exuded a foul stench, he stopped a ways out, his mouth unsmiling. Gloved hands gripping the lines, he extended them to her.
“This is Petra.”
“That’s a Russian name.”
A sigh lifted his vest-clad chest. “Bought her from a Russian family.”
“There are Russians here?” During their stay in Boomer Town, the tent city that had sprung up along the border of Unassigned Lands in the weeks preceding the land rush, she’d encountered Poles and Czechs but no Russians. “My mother came to America when she was a little girl. She taught me the language. What are their names?”
“Kozlov.”
“Where is their claim? Can you take me?” Excitement shimmered through her. Her
