Wyatt reckoned he’d be fighting for the Union himself if he lived in the States. The honest truth was that he’d thought about going back a time or two and enlisting. He wanted to do his duty like the next man. But out here, they were too far away from the conflict. By the time they left and traveled east, the war would likely be over.

Even so, he should have sent for Ma—for all his family—sooner. He could have written to Flynn early in the summer, once the cabin was ready, and told them to come.

Wyatt swallowed hard and pushed down the guilt that came with the grief. He’d had years to make something of himself and to find a way to save Ma. And, blast it all, now he was too late.

A nip in the breeze slapped his cheeks. With November just around the corner, the days were not only growing cooler, but shorter, giving him less daylight for finishing all that needed to be done before winter set in.

His gaze snagged upon the cabin. At the sight of a thin curl of smoke coming from the cookstove pipe, his heartbeat gave an extra thump. He’d only been gone for three days, but with the eagerness driving him, anyone else would have guessed he’d been gone for three weeks.

He’d never felt this way after a trip. Then again, this was the first extended time he’d been gone since marrying Greta back in August. He could admit he’d been nervous about leaving her and Astrid behind, even if Judd had assured him he’d stick close to home.

His anticipation was mounting as he drew nearer. Anticipation for seeing Greta’s beautiful smile and the sparkle in her eyes. Anticipation for hearing her voice. Anticipation for catching up on all she’d done the past few days.

More than that, she had unending confidence in his abilities in a way no one else ever had. She didn’t flatter him or give him false hope. But because she believed he could do anything, he almost believed it for himself.

He nudged his horse forward, the movement shifting the direction of the cow and spurring her to move faster.

There was something satisfying in knowing he was returning home to someone and not just an empty house. He loved that whenever he came around, she stood in the doorway or sat back on her heels in the garden or paused in whatever task she was doing to watch him approach.

More and more lately, he’d been tempted to go right over and pull her into his arms. It was getting mighty hard to keep his hands and thoughts from her. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from reaching for her in the livery. . . .

It was a good thing they had less than two weeks of their trial to go.