She shook out the skirts of her blue calico dress, musty from so many weeks closed up in the travel trunk, and when she looked up, her gaze collided with that of June-bug McCaffrey, a small, gracious woman with a compassionate manner.

Mrs. McCaffrey glanced at her husband, Jacob, who was seated near the natural-rock fireplace, mending a harness. He was a gentle soul, impressive in size, with a somber expression and a head full of dark hair.

“Now, June-bug,” he said quietly, “don’t go interferin’ in this.”

Evangeline had almost worked up the nerve to ask what he meant—it wasn’t the first such exchange between the two since she’d arrived and stated her intention to marry John Keating—when there was a thunderous knock at the heavy door, only briefly preceding a rush of winter air and the entrance of the tall man she expected to marry. Behind her, Abigail, who hoped for a pony of her own, not to mention a father, fairly jumped up and down with excitement.

Evangeline might have introduced herself, indeed, she was just stepping forward to do so, when the newcomer swept off his hat, revealing a head of fair, sun-streaked hair. His finely made face was ruddy with cold, and the look in his eyes, a bright blue green, was at once curious and amused, chagrined and bold.

Evangeline’s stomach, wedged into her throat only a moment before, plummeted back into its rightful place, landing with a sickening lurch. “You’re not Mr. Keating,” she managed.

He studied her for what seemed like a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, at last, he replied. “No, ma’am,” he said simply. “I’m not.”

While Evangeline was absorbing his announcement—Abigail, hovering at the edge of her vision, was still at last—the man held his hat in both hands and nodded to the McCaffreys. “Jacob,” he said, by way of acknowledgment. “Miss June-bug.”

“You’ll want some hot coffee, after a ride like that,” June-bug decreed, bustling between the three trestle tables set out for the service of guests, with the stove as her intended destination. She was trim, with brown hair only faintly touched with gray, radiant skin, and eyes of an intense blue. “Some breakfast, too, I’ll bet. You sit yourself down.”

Evangeline stood stock still, afraid to move or speak. The man might well be an emissary for her future husband, but an inner sense, coupled with the odd glances the McCaffreys had been passing back and forth, told her that something was very wrong.

Mr. McCaffrey, ever the gentleman, set his harnesses aside and stood, running his broad, work-roughened hands down the sides of his black woolen trousers. “Mrs. Keating,” he said, after clearing his throat once, “this here is Scully Wainwright. He’s partners with Big John, there at the Circle JW. Scully, this is Mrs. Keating.”

Woodenly, Evangeline put out a hand. Wainwright hesitated, then wrenched off his heavy leather gloves and reciprocated. “Mrs. Keating,” he said. There was a steadiness in him that ran deep, she sensed that right away, and despite a slight twitch in his jawline, he didn’t once try to skirt her gaze.