Blushing, Catherine grew quiet as she rinsed a large black pot. She knew exactly what Rebecca meant. She’d lain awake many a night as memories washed over her of a pewter-eyed demon who had promised her everything, including the moon above.

A man who had made her body so hot there had been times when she was certain she’d perish in flames.

But unlike her friend, she wasn’t a widow. For all she knew, her husband could come waltzing up to the front door at any time and knock on it.

As if that would ever happen, Catherine chided herself.

When would she give up her useless, unwavering hope of seeing him again? Why couldn’t she just put him out her mind?

What was it about him that made her yearn for him after all this time?

Of course, she knew the answer to that question—everything about him. He’d been so wonderful and kind, considerate and giving. Up until the day he left her without so much as a by-your-leave.

She must be insane to still yearn for him.

And after five years, he might be dead. Heaven knew, a lot had happened to her since he’d run off. She’d moved to a new town, started her own restaurant and boardinghouse, and created a respectable life for her and her four-year-old daughter, Diana.

Last summer, after the yellow fever epidemic, she and Rebecca had taken in five of the town of Redwood’s orphans.

A lot had happened.

Rebecca sidled up to her and took the pot from her hands to dry it. “So, tell me, if not a gorgeous St. Nick to come knocking on the door, what do you want for Christmas?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Catherine said as she reached to wash a pan. “I guess if I had my druthers, I’d like for our money to be returned. It bothers me that someone would steal from the children right before Christmas.”

Rebecca agreed. “I know how much you wanted to spend it on them. It’s such a shame. I can’t imagine what kind of monster could so something so terrible.”

Neither did she.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes. Only the sound of sloshing water and clanging dishes broke the silence as they worked.

All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Catherine’s neck stood up. Turning her head, she saw Rebecca staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Is that really all you want for Christmas?”

Catherine handed her another pan to dry. “Why, yes. I’m quite happy with everything else.”

Rebecca arched a questioning brow.

“I am,” Catherine insisted.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Rebecca said, putting the pan away. “Can you truly tell me that you haven’t once given thought to having a handsome man come sweep you off your feet?”