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Noah had intended to throw the letter he received away, but it had sat on his bedside table for two weeks. Every night he’d read it and tried to write some words to tell the woman there had been a misunderstanding. He’d had one wife and had no intentions of ever seeking another.

But the sparse words on the plain piece of paper had haunted him. He could almost feel the woman’s desperation as she penned the few words telling him that she was an immigrant from Northern Ireland, a mature widow who had worked as a scrubwoman until her husband had been killed and she’d lost her job. She had no other family and was looking for a home for herself and her child. She had taken lessons to improve her speech, she said, and she knew also how to sew. Maybe it was the lack of polish and detail that had spoken to him. He’d known discouragement so deep it threatened the soul. He’d sensed this woman had nothing but a fragile pride stopping her from begging for help.

Finally, one night he’d written to her, telling her to come if she hadn’t already found another position. And he’d prayed that she had. He had repeated that he had separate quarters for her, hoping to assure her that he didn’t mean to take advantage of her plight. Once she had saved some money, he would offer to have the marriage annulled if she wanted. He knew how easily women, especially immigrants, starved to death in cities like Boston after they lost their husbands and their jobs.

“I mean to pay you,” Noah said as he turned around to speak to the woman. “They didn’t mention that in the ad, but—”

She wasn’t there. She hadn’t followed him over to the counter like he had assumed. Instead, she was bent over the little girl, speaking in a low voice. All he saw was the top of her blanketed head, but something about her and the child made him uneasy. She hadn’t mentioned her age in the brief letter she’d written, but mature surely meant someone old enough to be a grandmother. He was thirty-three and he figured someone of that description had to be in her fifties. But not many women that age would have a young child.

The girl was probably her granddaughter, he told himself in relief. Maybe she thought he would frown upon her bringing a child who wasn’t hers.

Just then Jimmy, the boy who ran errands in the store, came out from the back room.

“Help you?” He nodded in greeting. “I got some of your order in the wagon. I left room for a couple of trunks. But I got in the ham you wanted and a side of bacon. I’ll bring the rest out later.”

“My wife is going to put in a full order for that later delivery, but you’ll need to pick up her trunk from the railroad station now,” Noah said loudly enough for the woman to hear. “Flanagan is the name.”

His words got her attention and she turned away from the display and started walking closer to him. He couldn’t see anything on that table to appeal to a woman unless it was the china teapot.

“Put the pot in the window in our wagon, too,” Noah whispered as he leaned in and spoke quietly to Jimmy. “Wrap it in a sack and see if you can find some red ribbon to go around it, too.”

Noah was pleased with himself. He hadn’t bought anyone a Christmas present since his wife ran away over two years ago. Oh, he always gave the ranch hands a twenty-dollar gold piece each. But a woman liked a gift.

“I’m sure you know what to stock for supplies in the kitchen,” Noah said once the woman reached him. “Just tell Jimmy here. He can write it down.”

“I don’t know.” She sounded a little alarmed.

The wind had made it hard to hear her earlier, but inside here he caught a hint of gentle Irish brogue in her voice. He liked it.

“They have almost everything you’d want in the mercantile here,” he assured her.

She was silent for a moment.

“I’ll just get your usual order,” she finally said, sounding hesitant. “Until I’ve had a chance to check on what spices you have and everything.”

Noah frowned. “There’s not much on the shelves. We haven’t had a cook on the place since my wife left two years ago.”

“Your wife?” The woman looked up at that, no longer timid in her tone. If the sky outside wasn’t going dark, he would have been able to see her face fully. He was sure there’d be some spark there, but the shadows hid her.

“She divorced me.” He didn’t like talking about his wife, but the woman deserved to know his past, especially since he’d brought it up. “She didn’t think I could give her enough fancy things—you know, clothes and furniture. Things like that.”

Flanagan didn’t say anything and he was grateful for her tact.

“She wasn’t much of a cook,” he added. “Could barely make pancakes. Either raw in the middle or so thin there was nothing to them. But she did order in spices and tins of oysters.”

He supposed it was during his marriage that he had become accustomed to poor cooking. His wife had had visions of entertaining visiting dignitaries, but he didn’t know any such people so the few imported tins gathered dust on the shelves. He’d been so miserable during that time, he hadn’t cared about eating and his men, maybe sensing how bad things were between him and his wife, hadn’t complained much about the food, either.

Noah turned to the boy behind the counter. “Add a few cases of canned peaches to the order.” He figured his men deserved something festive to eat. And maybe their ad would work out better than he’d expected. “Put the peaches in the wagon. I think there’ll be room since there’s only one trunk.”

“Oh, and tell the clerk when he gets back that he’ll be taking his supply orders from my wife from now on,” he added with a nod to Maeve.

Jimmy looked between him and the woman and nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

Noah suddenly realized the youngster had learned more about him in the past few minutes than most adults in town had learned in the decade he’d lived here.

“Well, we best get going,” Noah said as he turned to the woman. “The church is only a few doors down.”

“I’d like to talk to you before we see the preacher,” she said then, her voice low and serious.

Noah felt his heart sink. He feared she was going to back out. Although why she would, he wasn’t certain. She hadn’t seen much of the country around here. His wife had always said the mercantile wasn’t as well stocked as stores back East, but that seemed a small reason to leave. It might be the weather, though. Some people couldn’t tolerate the bad storms they had here, especially if they found themselves snowbound. But she was Irish. And from Boston. Shouldn’t she be used to the cold?

Noah looked around. There were no private places in the mercantile and he didn’t want his business spread all over the territory. If he was going to be left at the altar, he didn’t want everyone to know. The divorce had done enough damage to his pride.

“We can take a moment in the church,” he said finally.

The woman nodded and took the hand of the girl.

They walked to the door.

“The preacher is expecting us,” he added as he stepped over to open the door. “So he’ll be there when we arrive.”

He turned back to Jimmy. “You’ll have to finish loading the supplies in the wagon. Remember the peaches.”

A knowing twinkle appeared in the boy’s eyes. “I’ll get them there. And congratulations.”

Noah frowned, but nodded his thanks. He supposed it was impossible to keep the wedding plans a secret even if the woman backed out. The ranch hands had probably already announced it to everyone they’d seen in the days since he’d told them Maeve had boarded the train in Boston and was heading south to pick up the rail line that would bring her west.

Noah reached over and opened the doors.

“Just follow me,” he said to the woman as he stepped out to the street.

The wind hit him and he hunched his shoulders. He was a God-fearing man and he didn’t believe in superstitions, but he wondered if it was wise to get married with a snowstorm brewing. His first wife would have been calling the whole thing off by now. Maybe the widow was wise to have second thoughts.

Chapter Two

Tiny hailstones were still falling as Maeve followed Noah out of the mercantile. The damp cold hit her face and she reached down to scoop Violet into her arms. She wrapped the blanket around both of them, even though she could barely carry her daughter.

A huge amount of snow covered the walkway. Maeve had worn her best leather shoes and didn’t want to ruin them so she began to gingerly place her feet in the trail of footsteps Noah had left behind. These were her church shoes, and, before she left Boston, she had promised Violet that they could go to church when they got settled here. She didn’t want anyone to look down on her and Violet so she’d need the shoes. The church people in Boston had been very particular about what a woman wore on her feet and on her head. That was even before they’d rejected her on account of her late husband.

Maeve had taken only two steps when Noah turned around. The clouds had darkened since they’d gone into the mercantile. He had his Stetson firmly pulled down on his head, but his beard was whiter in the snow.

“Here,” he said as he held out his arms. “I can carry her.”

“I don’t know.” Ever since the stabbing of her father, Violet had been skittish around men. They scared her. Maeve didn’t know how to explain all of that to Noah, though, especially not standing in the freezing wind in the middle of the walkway. “She’s content under the blanket.”

“She’ll still have the shawl if I take her,” Noah said.

Maeve hesitated, but she supposed the girl needed to get used to Noah at some point.

She bent down to whisper to her daughter. “The man’s going to carry you so you’re out of the cold faster. Is that all right?”

It was a moment before she felt her daughter nod her head slightly.

“Thank you,” Maeve said as she held her daughter out.

Noah took the girl and kept walking down the street. Now that Maeve was free to pick up her skirts, she stepped a lot faster behind him. She didn’t want to be too far away from him in case Violet needed her.

Noah waited for her in front of the small white church. She liked it. There was no formal steeple like they had back East. The place looked almost friendly and she saw smoke coming from a chimney in the back. The windows on each side were small and rimmed with frost. She doubted they had been pushed open since the last day of fall. Snow had blown against the casings and collected all around. She believed this church would not turn a woman away because of her husband’s sins.

After she arrived at the church steps, she looked at Noah. “I’ll need a few minutes to talk to you.”

He nodded as he opened the door and gestured for her to go inside ahead of him.

The smell of burning wood greeted her as she walked into the church. The blanket, while still wrapped around her head as best as she could manage, was cold and damp as she stood there. Some of the snowflakes on the wool must have melted while they were in the mercantile. Now a musty scent was beginning to rise from the covering as the heat become more pronounced.

It was dark enough inside the church that her eyes needed to adjust. A cast-iron heating stove stood in the far corner next to a pulpit. That was where the heat was coming from. Student desks were pushed against the sides of the church and, she noticed, there was a blackboard in the front of the room. A faint gray line on the floor, which looked as if it had endured many scrubbings, divided the room. This was Saturday and benches were lined up in the room now. She’d heard these frontier churches often used the same building for a schoolhouse and a church.

Maeve relaxed her grip on the blanket wrapped around her head and felt it fall to her shoulders. As the wool slid off her head, it took her hat with it.

She felt a moment’s unease. Her thick, riotous copper hair had given her trouble in the church she’d attended back East. People seemed to think a woman kept her morals in her hair knot and strands of hers were always coming loose. And that was before her husband had been loudly denounced from the pulpits in Boston. Maeve hadn’t trusted the clergy since then. It was the ministers who had turned her employer against her.

“Welcome.” A man’s voice came from the front of the room and she saw a figure rise from a chair next to the stove. Tall and dressed in black, the white-haired man swayed a little as he walked. “I’m Reverend Olson. I’ve been expecting the two of you.”

She blinked the last of the snowflakes off her eyelids and saw him lean on his cane with one hand as he walked down the side of the benches with the other hand outstretched.

“Excuse me, I should have said the three of you,” he added as he smiled at Violet even though the child had her face pressed against Noah’s chest and couldn’t even see the reverend.

“My wife is going to be here any minute,” the preacher continued, beaming at them all now. “She’ll bring our neighbor Mrs. Barker with her so you have the witnesses you need for a legal marriage certificate.”

“I need to discuss something with Noah first,” Maeve said. She couldn’t marry him without telling him about the baby.

Then she heard a choking sound behind her and turned.

Noah was staring at her. “Your hair.”

Maeve squared her shoulder. If the man had something against red hair, he should have mentioned it earlier.

“I told you I was from Northern Ireland,” she told him defiantly. “Everyone knows a lot of women in that part of the country have hair like this. I can’t change the color. I’ve been working to tame my voice so it sounds American, but there’s no changing my hair.”

Maeve knew she should back down. This man held her future. If he was going to reject her because of her hair, he certainly wouldn’t accept her with a baby.

She’d forgotten Reverend Olson had been talking until she saw that he was waiting patiently at the end of the row of benches. He’d given up on shaking anyone’s hand, but he was watching Noah and her with some interest.

“You haven’t changed your voice as much as you think,” Noah finally said as he sat Violet down on a bench.

Maeve glared at him. “I’ve done my best.”

“There’s music when you speak,” Noah said, his voice clipped as if he was angry, even though she didn’t know why he would be. He had removed his hat and set it down by her daughter. He ran his hand through his damp strands of hair.

“I like to sing,” Maeve said defiantly. She looked into the man’s eyes. The color had darkened and they were almost dark brown instead of green. She didn’t know why she fought when she was afraid, but everything in her seemed to lead her that way.

Noah nodded as he studied her some more, obviously trying to decide something.

“I suppose I could put blackening in my hair if the red color bothers you that much,” Maeve forced herself to say. She couldn’t stand against the man’s wishes. Not when she remembered how destitute she was. How would she care for a baby and her daughter? She glanced over at Violet and saw the girl was watching both of them intently. She’d sacrifice anything to give her children a decent life, even her pride.

Noah shook his head. “Your hair is magnificent. Like the sun in a red sky at night.”

He didn’t say it as if it was a good thing, but Maeve was still relieved. She wasn’t sure she could walk around with blackening on her head.

“It’s just I thought you were a widow,” Noah said, his voice tinged with reproach.

Maeve felt her heart beat faster. “Who would lie about being a widow? My husband died seven weeks ago. You can read any of the Boston papers if you don’t believe me. They certainly covered his death long enough.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Maeve could hear the crackle of the fire and noticed the preacher had left the door to the stove open, no doubt to warm the room faster. It reminded her that the coal bin for the small fireplace in her rented room would have been empty by now, regardless of whether she had been able to leave or not. She’d burned only enough coal to keep them from freezing. She couldn’t take her children back to that life; they might not survive next time.

“You’re too young for the kind of marriage I have in mind,” Noah finally said. “That’s why I asked for a mature widow.” He looked at her, and this time he didn’t bother to hide his reproach. “Why, you’re scarcely old enough to be a wife, let alone a widow.”

“I’m twenty-five-years old,” Maeve said as she straightened her back so she was her full height. She was tall enough to intimidate most men, but she didn’t seem to move Noah. “Old enough to have a daughter and lose a husband in a very public and humiliating fashion.”

Noah was quiet. “I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t ready to mention the baby. Not in anger like this.

They were both quiet for a moment.

“I’m sure you’ve had some hard times,” he finally added, “but life can change. You’re young enough to find a happy marriage. You’re not who I expected.”

Maeve had traveled over two thousand miles, breathing the smoke of the train and pretending to be grateful for the stale butter sandwiches, the only food she’d had to pack with them when they’d left. Her daughter was suffering from bad memories; it was almost Christmas; and before long, Maeve would likely have bouts of morning sickness.

“Violet and I might not be the kind of people you expected,” Maeve said, her voice growing strong. “But we are who you got.”

Noah looked a little stunned at the force in her voice and she had to admit she was surprised herself. But she was at the end of her road. She didn’t have money to wait for another mail-order husband. Not that she was likely to find one now that she’d have a baby to consider as well as Violet. Besides, she thought indignantly, Noah shouldn’t have put an ad in the newspaper unless he expected someone to answer it.

Maeve looked over at the reverend.

“I just need to discuss something with Noah,” she said. “If you’ll excuse us.”

She willed her nerves to stop racing around in her stomach.

The preacher nodded as a couple of middle-aged women came through the door, brushing snow and hail off their garments.

“My wife,” the reverend gestured to a plump, kindly looking woman.

Then he introduced the other woman, who had dark hair and a stern face. “Mrs. Barker.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Maeve said with a smile for the women. They nodded in return.

Maeve reached up to her hair. Curls sprang from her head the way they did in damp weather. The whole bunch of it had escaped its pins and was, no doubt, spreading out around her head like a wild dandelion on fire. She looked down and saw her hat had rolled under one of the benches. She walked over and bent down to retrieve it. The cook at the house where she had worked had given her that old wool hat so she could take Violet to church without having anyone gossip or complain that she wasn’t dressed in the right church clothes.

When she stood up, she saw that Noah had walked close to her.

“I don’t mean for our marriage to be real,” he said to her. He spoke low, clearly not wanting the others to hear. “If that’s what you want to talk about, don’t worry. I thought the ad made it clear that I’m suggesting we have one of those—what do they call them—marriages in name only?”

“I read the ad. I know you don’t want a regular marriage.”

She meant to keep her voice quiet, but she was troubled. What kind of a wedded life would they have? No affection. And no more children after the baby that was coming—which he didn’t even know about she realized with a sinking heart. Maybe he didn’t want more children.

Maeve barely noticed the gasps of the two older women. She was watching the deep red spread over Noah’s face.

“I thought you’d be fifty years old at least,” he protested, no longer trying to be quiet. “A marriage in name only means sleeping apart.”

“I know what it means,” Maeve snapped.

Noah’s jaw was clenched and his words came out low. “You’re too young to give up your life for a steady job. I’m trying to give you a chance to avoid this marriage. If it’s a matter of money to get home, I can give you some—with extra.”

“I don’t take charity,” Maeve said defiantly, even though it wasn’t true. After she’d lost her job, she wouldn’t have been able to provide food for her and Violet if her only friend, the cook at the house where she used to work, hadn’t given her bags of foodstuffs every few days. Her pride had been another recent casualty in her life.

“Good, then work for me,” Noah challenged her. “You and your daughter can live in the house. I’ll move to the bunkhouse.”

Someone gasped even louder than before and Maeve heard footsteps coming closer.

When Maeve looked up, she saw the stern-faced woman, Mrs. Barker, standing there with her hands on her hips as she scolded Noah. “You can’t ask this young woman to live out there with all those ranch hands of yours and no wedding ring on her finger. Shame on you, Noah Miller. You know her reputation will be in tatters if she does that.”

“I don’t mind,” Maeve said quietly. A reputation was a luxury she could not afford to consider.

“She and her girl would be staying in my room in the house,” Noah assured the other woman. “My men will vouch for me staying in that room off the bunkhouse. You don’t need to worry about Maeve and her girl. I’ve got a comfortable bed for them. Made the frame myself.”

“I can’t take your bed.” Maeve blushed when she said it. Sleeping in the man’s bed felt intimate. She glanced around and saw that the preacher was walking toward them now, too.

“Yes, you can.” Noah’s voice was deep and filled with some emotion she couldn’t identify. He’d turned from the other woman and was focusing on her. “It comes with the job. You’ll need to rest if you expect to get up early and fix breakfast for the men. Coffee and fried eggs will do. Can you cook them?”

“Anyone can fry an egg,” Maeve said, feeling relief flow over her. He meant to keep her for now. “And, coffee, of course.”

“We’re set, then?” he asked.

She gave him a nod as she felt a slight roll in her stomach. It must have been the thought of frying eggs. The smell had given her problems when she was carrying Violet, too. Not that she had a choice now. She had to cook eggs.

Her friend in Boston had said that ad might not be all she hoped and it looked as if she was right. But it was winter and she had a daughter as well as a baby to consider. She needed to keep them warm and fed. Besides, if she gave Noah time to come to love Violet, she could tell him about the baby.

* * *

Noah clenched his hands into a fist. The woman looked pale. He had confused things and he didn’t know how to make everything right. After she got rid of that hat, the woman had been glorious, with her pink cheeks and her copper hair tumbling down to her shoulders. She was a beauty and deserved the kind of happiness he’d heard a good marriage could bring. The very thought of working for him seemed to turn her sickly, though.

It depressed him to have to disappoint her, but he hadn’t been able to keep his first wife, Allison, happy. And he’d loved her. Her list of things she wanted had been long—a proper house, a set of English china, a silk dress for every day of the week, copper pans in the kitchen, Irish linens in the bedroom, hand-painted angels on the mantel in the parlor and a maid. He would have sold every possession he had if she would have stayed with him and raised a family. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much worth selling in those days.

The irony was that, after she’d left him, his herd of cattle had increased. Slowly, he’d built up his ranch, adding the kind of proper house Allison had always said she wanted. He never expected to see her again, but he’d found himself adding all of the little luxuries she had wanted. It was more to prove to himself that he could afford them than because he had much use for them.