The broad shoulders moved in an easy shrug, but Mr. Wainwright did avert his gaze for a moment. “I reckon you ought to come to the ranch with me, ma’am. You can settle in there, and carry on with the wedding when Big John gets home in the spring.”

Evangeline was both relieved and horrified, having gotten the distinct impression that Mr. Wainwright had been living and working alone on the Circle JW since his partner’s departure. It was one thing to have a place to go, and quite another to share a domicile with a stranger, and a male one, at that.

Abigail, uncharacteristically silent until then, peered around Evangeline’s hip and inquired, “May I have a pony? I’d like a spotted one, though any color would do.”

Wainwright smiled at that, and in so doing struck a chord somewhere inside Evangeline. The resulting emotional sensations, resonating within her like just-strummed harp strings, seemed better left unexamined. “Snow’s pretty deep,” he replied. “All the same, there might be a yearling you could ride.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said solemnly, stepping forward now and extending her small hand, as if to seal the bargain. She seemed impossibly delicate, with her birdlike bones, enormous china blue eyes, and pale skin, contrasted by midnight-dark ringlets, but in this case appearances were indeed deceptive. Abigail was country-bred, and despite her prim little dress and doll-like aspect, she was as wiry and agile as any boy alive, and just as mischievous. Within her daughter’s small breast, Evangeline thought, with mingled pride and consternation, beat the heart of a ruffian and a rascal.

Evangeline took a gentle hold on her daughter’s hand and drew her back, though the bargain had clearly already been struck. There would be a pony for Abigail. That, Evangeline supposed, was some consolation, at least.

“I’m not sure this is proper,” she said, looking hard at Mr. Wainwright. His face was sun-bronzed, which only enhanced the turquoise shade of his eyes and made his straight white teeth seem even whiter. “Unless, of course, you are a married man. If your wife were present . . .”

“No wife,” he interrupted, and took a leisurely sip from the coffee June-bug had provided. There was no sign of the McCaffreys now, though their voices could be heard from the small storeroom off the kitchen area, raised in what sounded like an amiable argument. “But I can live in the tack room out in the barn, and Jacob and Miss June-bug will warrant that I’m not the sort to force . . .” Here, he glanced at Abigail, and had the good grace to blush a little, beneath that deep tan of his. “I am a gentleman, in all respects that ought to concern you, Mrs. Keating.”

Evangeline believed him, even after all her confrontations and near misses with Mott, which had left her somewhat wary of men. Over the eight years of her marriage to Charles, however, she had cultivated her intuition, which told her that Wainwright presented no physical danger to her, or to Abigail. This was not to say that he was tame; everything in his manner and bearing indicated that he was as wild as the wolves and cougars stalking the foothills of this treacherous, uncivilized and incomprehensibly beautiful country.