“He takes a drop of whiskey now and again,” Scully admitted, without apparent chagrin. “Out here, a man gets lonesome sometimes, and a shot of rotgut takes some of the sting out of it. He ain’t likely to beat you, though, if that’s what you’re worried about. Big John prides himself on being a fair hand with the ladies.”

It was Evangeline’s turn to smile, for Scully suddenly looked as though he’d like to swallow his tongue.

“Well,” he attempted, “what I meant was—”

She laughed, and that dispelled some of the awkwardness between them. “I know what you meant,” she said. “You were trying to say that Mr. Keating is a gentleman.”

Scully frowned. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, in all seriousness.

Evangeline decided to let the remark pass, since she had nowhere else to go besides the Circle JW anyway.

Scully looked even more disgruntled than before. “What I’m trying to say is, Big John likes a good fight once in a while, and he’s some fond of dancing with a pretty woman. He likes to buy them presents, too—trinkets and geegaws—” He went red beneath his rancher’s tan. “Damn it all,” he breathed.

Before she thought about it, Evangeline laid her hand to Scully’s forearm, felt the hard musculature even through the sleeve of his fleece-lined coat. “It’s all right,” she assured him. A glance back at Abigail revealed that the child was dozing, and therefore had not heard Scully curse. “Tell me what Mr. Keating looks like. Besides being big, I mean.”

Scully was quiet for a time, scanning the horizons with narrowed eyes, as though he might find the answers there somewhere. In actual fact, he was probably looking for signs of danger. “I thought he sent you his picture,” he said uneasily.

“People never look like their photographs,” Evangeline stated. At least, she hoped Mr. Keating didn’t. In the likeness he’d mailed to her, with the letter and bank draft that had changed her life, he looked grim and a little fierce, and though his shoulders were broad, his face seemed gaunt, giving the overall impression of an undertaker. His salt-and-pepper hair was thin on top, and hung past his ears at the side, and his celluloid collar appeared to be strangling him.

“Big John does,” Scully said flatly. No one could ever accuse him of embellishment, Evangeline thought, with a sort of rueful appreciation. Unable to come up with a reply, she held her peace. In the meantime, her feet began to go numb, one toe at a time.

Periodically, she knelt backwards on the front seat of the sleigh, jostling against Scully’s side more than seemed advisable, and reached back to make sure Abigail was covered. The little girl slept soundly, in part because of the early hour, in part because of the smooth, gliding motion of the sleigh.

Scully seemed comfortable in the silence; of course he was used to spending time alone. A placid mood had descended over Evangeline, perhaps for the same reasons Abigail was sleeping. She nodded off once, only to be rudely awakened by a stop so sudden that she might have sailed over the front of the sleigh to be trampled by the mules, if Scully hadn’t grabbed hold of the back of her cloak.