He took a moment to resettle his hat and admire the sheer grandeur of all that countryside before urging the mules forward with a slap of the reins. The Appaloosa would stay behind until he returned in a couple of days with Jacob’s mules and sleigh.

For a while, Scully had all he could do to keep the team moving forward; the mules were more inclined to stay put, with grain and shelter close by, and Scully couldn’t rightly say he blamed them. The trip wouldn’t be easy for any of them, human or otherwise, but it was there to be done. John Keating would expect his sent-for wife to be waiting for him when he got back from Mexico in the springtime and, as Big John’s friend and partner, Scully was honor bound to look after the other man’s interests. Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t a mite irritated that the old man had sent for the woman and the little girl and then decided to light out.

Sure, the herd had to be replenished, but it would have made more sense to send Scully to do the buying, hire a crew of drovers and make the long trip back up to Montana, while Big John waited at the Circle JW for his bride and stepdaughter. Scully had the utmost respect for Big John Keating, but he wondered if the prospect of taking a wife after all those years alone hadn’t scared him into a high lope.

He sighed again. Evangeline was a pretty woman, in a sensible sort of way, the kind that would hold up well in the face of the inevitable hardships. In Big John’s place, he’d have been mightily pleased for the company beside the fire of a night, not to mention the other consolations of marriage.

“How far is ten miles?” the little girl chirped, from the back of the sleigh.

Scully turned to grin at her. “It’s a long way, Punkin,” he answered, “but we ought to be there before nightfall.”

“If we don’t get eaten by wolves,” Abigail said, in happy speculation.

“Right,” he agreed.

“Or attacked by red Indians.”

“There is that,” Scully said, with a grave nod.

“Or held up by outlaws.”

“Abigail!” Evangeline interceded. “That will be quite enough. Mr. Wainwright needs to concentrate on driving the mules.”

“Scully,” he corrected her, without meaning to. Then he got hoarse, and cleared his throat. “Call me Scully.”

The brown eyes regarded him solemnly. “Very well, then. But I don’t think it would be proper for you to address me by my given name.”

He felt a pang in the place where he’d last seen his heart, but not because she wanted to avoid overfamiliarity. It was the sadness he glimpsed in her that gave him pause, the loneliness and the intimate knowledge of war and all its singular sorrows. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“I guess ‘ma’am’ will do for now,” she said primly. He thought it interesting that she didn’t ask to be called “Mrs. Keating” and wished all of the sudden that he knew more—a lot more—about her first husband, Big John’s favorite cousin.