leaned forward in the saddle, ruing the fact that he didn’t have his field glasses with him. For long moments, he scoured the area below him until he was sure that the glow had been a figment of his imagination.
He’d decided to return to town when he saw it again. A tiny flicker down by the riverbanks.
A fire?
For nearly a quarter hour, he watched, and in that time, the light neither grew larger or smaller—which meant it was being tended. Occasionally, Gideon would lose sight of it altogether—as if someone or something blocked it from view. Then it would reappear.
The sight wasn’t completely unexpected. The miners weren’t the only ones to make Aspen Valley their home. There were trappers and hunters who lived or crossed through the area. Farther north, beyond the next mountain range, there were farmers and ranchers trying to eke out a living in the fertile lowlands. If the pass had opened enough for Aspen Valley to contact the outside world, it only stood to reason that the outer world could come to them. For all Gideon knew, it could be the Pinkerton offices or the railway company trying to make contact.
But something about the idea of a stranger only a few miles away, with the Bachelor Bottoms warehouses full of silver ore and the Dovecote bursting with single women, caused the hairs at his nape to prickle. All thought of sleep skittered away. He would return to his quarters, retrieve his field glasses and leave word with his men that he’d be gone until morning. It shouldn’t take much longer than that to investigate what he’d seen and make up his mind whether added security measures were needed.
Gideon hurried into the Meeting House with only seconds to spare—which meant that the only seats available were toward the front. He could feel the heavy weight of dozens of eyes settling upon him as he dragged his hat from his head and did his best to finger-comb his hair into place.
He probably looked a sorry sight. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and his clothes were spattered with mud. His hand rasped against the stubble at his jaw and his stomach gnawed with hunger. After a fruitless morning where he’d been able to discover little more than the still-warm ashes of the fire he’d seen the night before, he’d needed the steadying influence of the morning Devotional to begin his day.
Leaning back in his pew, he allowed the prelude music to soak into his tired muscles. Around him, sunlight streamed through the windows of the Meeting House, forming bands of warmth that highlighted the crowded pews. Since the hours at the mine had been extended, there were only two shifts, rather than the usual three, which meant that more of the miners attended the early services. The benches were filled to capacity with men who’d finished their work. Their weary, dusty faces butted up against those miners who were clean and eager to get to their posts.
Gideon had always thought that the Devotionals were a symbolic leveler. Here, there were no rich men, no poor men, no handsome dandies or ugly mutts. They were simply children of their Heavenly Father seeking the influence of the Spirit.
His eyes skipped from row to row, stopping at the front pews on the opposite side of the room.
No, not just men. The women came as well. Since Ezra Batchwell had been sequestered in his house with his injury, the women had stretched the boundaries of their freedom—and he supposed that it was to their credit that they’d sought out the spiritual venue. This morning, they sat in two rows, wearing their best Sunday bonnets. Some of them glanced over their shoulders to smile shyly at the men behind them. But for the most part, they seemed lost in their own thoughts, enjoying the music being played by their leader, Miss Lydia Tomlinson.
Gideon would have been the first to admit that Lydia was a fine organ player. She managed to coax sounds out of the old pump instrument that he never would have believed possible. This morning, she was playing something lyrical, classical. Gideon had heard the melody before, although he wasn’t schooled enough to know its name. He only knew that the melody seemed to chase itself from high to low then back again, bringing to mind soaring birds. Or playful cherubs.
The moment the thought appeared, Gideon pushed it away. Honestly, the lack of sleep was making him quite fanciful—yet another sign that the time had come for the women to leave the valley.
But even as he told himself to keep his mind on his job, he couldn’t help watching Lydia as she bent over the keys. She seemed lost to the music, her fingers flying, her eyes slightly closed as she played from memory. She’d removed her bonnet before sitting down and the sun wove among the coils and curls, gilding her hair until it seemed to glow.
So beautiful.
Stop it!
He tore his gaze away, focusing resolutely on his hat, running the brim through his palms. But just when he’d begun to control his thoughts, the congregation rose for the first hymn, and without thought, his eyes strayed back to Lydia again.
He couldn’t account for the way he felt a sense of...peace when he looked her way, as well as a heady anticipation. He had no doubts that within moments of meeting up with her again, the verbal sparring would begin—and the thought gave him a jolt of energy that seemed entirely inappropriate.
Once again, he yanked his thoughts—and his gaze—away from Miss Tomlinson. With all his might, he concentrated on the benediction, then on the sermon being offered by Charles Wanlass.
Unfortunately, his friend chose today, of all days, to speak about love, commitment and faithfulness.
Gideon fought the urge to roll his eyes. The man had it bad. It was there in the way he gazed down at his wife, Willow, who sat on the front pew with her friends. Charles was completely and irrevocably in love with his bride and thoroughly besotted with the twins they’d adopted as their own. It was enough to make a body wonder what he was missing.
Almost.
Gideon would have to be blind not to see the transformation which had occurred in his usually taciturn friend—and in Jonah Ramsey as well. But that didn’t mean that such ideas of marital bliss would provide the same happy ending for Gideon. Much as he might want a sweetheart someday, he had to be realistic. He had nothing that he could offer a woman save an uncertain future. He could never settle down enough to make such a woman happy. Not when his nights were still often haunted by dreams of Andersonville and the savagery he’d witnessed. There were times when he woke screaming, his body trembling, his skin icy with sweat.
No woman should be asked to share such burdens.
Especially not one so refined as Lydia Tomlinson.
“Is somethin’ wrong, buddy?”
Gideon started at the whisper. Beside him, Gus Creakle eyed him with rheumy eyes.
“No. I’m fine.”
Creakle grinned, his eyes nearly disappearing beneath a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles.
“She’s a pretty little filly, ain’t she?”
“Shh!” Gideon glanced around to make sure the man hadn’t been overheard. But other than Smalls, who sat to Creakle’s right, the other men seemed tuned to the sermon.
“She’d make a fine little wife.”
“I’m
