Evangeline’s shoulders sagged at the mention of her soon-to-be husband, and tears threatened again as she looked up at him. “Where will you go when you leave here?” she asked. “After Big John comes back, I mean?” She hoped he’d say he’d changed his mind about going, but that proved to be mere wishful thinking.

He looked away. “I don’t know,” he replied, at some length. Then he found his boots and dragged them on, put on his arrow-pierced coat and his spare hat—he’d lost his favorite in the ill-fated fray over the turkey—and went out to look in on the Appaloosa and the other animals.

Evangeline busied herself clearing away the remains of breakfast, washing the dishes, and sweeping the floor. Although it was bitterly cold outside, the sunshine was dazzling, and the reflected light filled the cabin, raising her spirits considerably.

In time, Abigail rose again, dressed by the cookstove, and pleaded to be allowed to go out and play in the snow until Evangeline finally relented. She had not forgotten the Indians, and certainly not the wolves, but they couldn’t spend their entire lives huddled inside the ranch house, lest they be beset by trouble. A child needed fresh air, exercise, and sunshine; indeed, they all did.

The sound of laughter, Scully’s as well as Abigail’s, brought her to the nearest window, and she smiled to see that they were throwing powdery snowballs at each other. Scully made a point of getting hit regularly, she noticed, with a smile, and although he was obviously a good shot himself, he took care not to do Abigail any hurt.

Evangeline felt her throat tighten, watching them. Charles Keating had been a good father and a decent man, but he’d been nearly sixty when Abigail was born. As a result, the child had never enjoyed such exuberant play with anyone besides Evangeline herself. It was plain that Abigail was reveling in Scully’s attention, in much the same way she reveled in the sunshine.

After half an hour, they came in, wet with snow and still laughing. Abigail and Hortense plopped down on the hearth rug to play, but Scully lingered near the door, taking his time getting out of his coat, his gaze linked with Evangeline’s. She would have sworn he knew what she was thinking—that her child needed a youthful father, like him. That she would never have one.

Evangeline turned away, pretending to be busy at the stove. Big John would be Abigail’s stepfather, and that was that. She could only hope that he genuinely liked children, the way Scully appeared to do, instead of merely tolerating them, as so many second husbands did. If she asked one thing of this fate she had chosen for herself, and could not escape, beyond the simple security of a home and husband, it was that John Keating would accept her daughter as his own child and not treat her as a burden he had been forced to take on.

Please, she prayed silently. Just then, she could not think beyond that one word.