The silence woke him at first light. The raging wind that had whistled down the ravine had finally settled. The storm was over.

He stood and gently lowered Emery to the bench. Covering her with his blanket, he kissed her head tenderly. He’d danced with a few women when drunk, and talked to a few when necessary, but holding Emery in his arms was a paradise he’d never expected.

Trapper had no way to put it into words.

Moments like this in his life were tiny stars in a million miles of darkness. They made all the hard times bearable. One night like this would carry him through seasons of loneliness. Strange, he thought, how he hadn’t known how hollow he was until Emery filled his heart.

As he buttoned his coat, he stared at the girls sleeping. Texas princesses born on this land. Number Five, Sophia May, she’d reminded him yesterday of her real name, had wiggled out of her blanket, but One, Catherine Claire, was holding her close and sharing her blanket with her little sister.

Number Four, Helen Wren, had hidden so many rocks beneath the back of the front seat he wouldn’t have been surprised if they weighed more than him. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her she had to toss out even one.

Four might be the next to the youngest, but she could read him. When he had to stop for the third time in one morning for the girls to “take care of private things,” or Trapper was forced into one of their games, Four always came near and patted him on the cheek, like that one thing would calm him.

Strange thing. It usually did.

When he studied Two and Three, he couldn’t believe he’d thought they looked just alike when he met them. They were as different as night and day. Number Two, Anna, was shy and organized, with a love of horses he’d rarely seen. Number Three, with her short hair and shorter temper, was emotional, unpredictable, and could talk him into anything.

As Trapper climbed out of the wagon and crunched his way down the ravine to the horses on a thin layer of frozen snow, he thought about what kind of men his girls would marry. He wished he could stay around to run off most suitors. If he were the colonel, he’d only let one in a hundred through the front door.

Trapper frowned. The colonel might want to think about nailing Number Three’s windows closed. Short hair or not, she’d be a beauty and probably would grow up to be wild as a jackrabbit.