One
Frozen Oaks, Nebraska, 1885
Lily Winter’s gaze flicked over the gunfighter and rapidly skittered away. Her brief glimpse of his unyielding profile sent a chill snaking down her spine.
The afternoon stagecoach had long since banked the horizon, dissolving into a bleak winter haze. Fat snowflakes drifted from the sky and swirled around her feet. Chafing her hands together, she blew a puff of warm air over her aching fingers. Her two young charges, Sam and Peter, huddled against her on the wooden bench outside the livery. The rest of the stagecoach passengers had either remained on the stage after the speedy change of horses or hastily escaped the biting wind. Only the three of them remained unclaimed.
The sharp air brought tears to her eyes, blurring her vision, and she blinked rapidly. Obviously there’d been a misunderstanding about their arrival. No need for panic.
Her vantage point allowed an unimpeded view of Main Street, and hearty shoppers darted in and out of storefronts. Their progress offered tantalizing glimpses of light and the promise of warmth. The shelter of the hotel restaurant and a cozy drink beckoned—save for one slight impediment.
The gunfighter had taken up residence on the boardwalk before the restaurant.
As though deliberately taunting her, he’d kicked back in a sturdy wooden chair, his legs outstretched, one heel propped on the upper railing, his ankles loosely crossed. His hat sat low on his forehead, shading his eyes.
Peter tilted his head and caught a snowflake on his eyelashes. “Can we have a snowball fight later?”
“We’ll see,” Lily replied, her attention distracted. “Maybe later.”
“Hmph.” Peter crossed his arms. “Maybe always means no.”
“Maybe means maybe.”
She pressed one hand against her roiling stomach. The noisy inn where they’d stayed the previous evening had not been conducive to sleep, and the constant pitch of the stagecoach had sent her breakfast churning. Since she was a child, moving conveyances had made her nauseous.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked Peter, adjusting his wool cap over his ears.
“My nose is chilly.”
Offering what little shelter she could against the cold, she wrapped her arm around the boy and hugged him closer.
Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Has something bad happened to our grandpa?”
“He’s late,” Lily said. “There’s nothing unusual about being late.”
At eleven years old, Sam had already experienced too much tragedy for such a youngster. While on a missionary trip to Africa, the siblings had lost their parents to a cholera epidemic. Upon their return to St. Joseph, Missouri, a judge was assigned as their temporary guardian. Their lone remaining relative, a paternal grandfather, was eventually discovered living in Frozen Oaks, Nebraska.
Fortunately for the pair, their parents had been wealthy. Children without ways and means were left to their own devices. A grim fate. Money didn’t make the grieving any easier, but the alternative was far worse.
Sam leaned into her warmth. “I’m glad you stayed. The lady who chaperoned us on the ship left us as soon as we docked.”
Lily started. “That’s unconscionable! I’m not leaving until I know for certain the two of you are safe and warm and curled up by the fire at your grandfather’s house.”
Though her role as chaperone was fleeting, Lily took her provisional responsibility seriously.
She’d answered an advertisement seeking a spinster to accompany the children on the last leg of their journey. At twenty-two, she figured she qualified. The judge had been skeptical, but she’d eventually persuaded him of her suitability. The salary for the trip was generous, and that money was the key to her future. She’d already put half the down payment on the boardinghouse that she wanted to purchase, and she desperately needed money for the other half.
Her chest tightened. Time was running short. If she didn’t apply the rest of the money soon, Mrs. Hollingsworth was liable to rescind her offer.
Peter gazed up at her with his enormous brown eyes. “Maybe that outlaw over there robbed grandpa’s stagecoach and left him for dead.”
Lily bolted upright. “He’s not an outlaw.”
At eight years old, Peter possessed a vivid imagination that was both enduring and worrisome. She’d reined in his grisly storytelling more than once during their lengthy travels from St. Joseph.
“There’s no reason to be scared,” she asserted, despite having reached a similar conclusion. “I’m sure a lot of men carry guns in this part of Nebraska.”
Sam snorted. “He’s an outlaw, all right. There’s a sign on the edge of town ordering everyone to check their guns with the sheriff. No exceptions. But he’s sitting there as bold as brass with a couple of six-shooters strapped to his hips. This whole town is probably filled with gunfighters. The outrider told me that folks in these parts don’t believe in law and order.”
Lily’s heartbeat picked up rhythm. There’d been a deep crease between the judge’s eyes when he’d reluctantly agreed to hire her as chaperone. With a sad shake of his head, he’d muttered something about fortune favoring the foolish.
“The outrider was trying to scare you.” She cleared her throat. “What sort of outlaw lives in a town called Frozen Oaks? Gunfighters live in places called Tombstone or Funeral Mountain. Only a milksop would settle in a place with such a ridiculous name.”
The gunfighter lifted his head and met her gaze. Her pulse thrummed.
“Perhaps he has special permission to carry a weapon. Maybe he’s been deputized or something.” She lowered her voice. “We shouldn’t gossip.” Just in case he had exceptional hearing. Better safe than murdered.
“Do you think he’ll shoot us?” Peter raised his voice in a hopeful lilt. “This place is more exciting than Africa. And colder, too.”
“He’s not going to shoot us.”
Gracious, that boy had a vivid imagination. A movement at the far edge of town caught her attention, and she spotted a wagon.
“That’s probably your grandfather now.”
The buckboard turned away, shredding the last ragged vestiges of her hope. Lily shifted in her seat, searching for a more comfortable position. They’d been forced to abandon the luxury of the train in Steele City some ten miles away. Ten miles on the stagecoach might as well have been a hundred. The boys had thought the bumpy ride great fun, but she was tumbled and aching from the journey.
In deference to her bruised backside, she stood and held out her hand. “Come along. There’s no use waiting in the cold.”
“You heard Miss Lily.” Sam rose and yanked on Peter’s collar. “Don’t just sit there. Let’s go.”
“Be nice to your brother,” Lily admonished gently. “You two are blessed to have each other.”
The
