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 SECOND START:
FAMILY
The Wyoming Marriage Association
Book 2

Patricia McLinn
 SECOND START:
FAMILY
The Wyoming Marriage Association
Book 2

Patricia McLinn
 The Wyoming Marriage Association
Helping love find a way

Sometimes love needs a nudge. That’s where the women of the Wyoming Marriage Association get
busy.
Characters from Patricia McLinn’s Bardville, Wyoming, and A Place Called Home trilogies, the
Wyoming Wildflowers romance series, and the romantic suspense Ride the River join forces to bring
together people they hope will find love and happiness as they have.
Book 1 – First Date: Divorce
Book 2 – Second Start: Family
 The Wyoming Marriage Association
Helping love find a way

Sometimes love needs a nudge. That’s where the women of the Wyoming Marriage Association get
busy.
Characters from Patricia McLinn’s Bardville, Wyoming, and A Place Called Home trilogies, the
Wyoming Wildflowers romance series, and the romantic suspense Ride the River join forces to bring
together people they hope will find love and happiness as they have.
Book 1 – First Date: Divorce
Book 2 – Second Start: Family
 Copyright © by Patricia McLinn
eBook ISBN: 978-1-954478-50-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-954478-90-9
Kindle Edition

www.PatriciaMcLinn.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information
storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a
review.

Cover design: Art by Karri

Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at Patricia@patriciamclinn.com. Even with many
layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! — Patricia McLinn
 Copyright © by Patricia McLinn
eBook ISBN: 978-1-954478-50-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-954478-90-9
Kindle Edition

www.PatriciaMcLinn.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information
storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a
review.

Cover design: Art by Karri

Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at Patricia@patriciamclinn.com. Even with many
layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! — Patricia McLinn
 Table of Contents
Title Page
The Wyoming Marriage Association
Copyright Page
The Matchmakers of The Wyoming Marriage Association
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
 Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
The Wyoming Marriage Association
Titles Connected to The Wyoming Marriage Association series
More Romance by Patricia McLinn
About the Author
 Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
The Wyoming Marriage Association
Titles Connected to The Wyoming Marriage Association series
More Romance by Patricia McLinn
About the Author
 The Matchmakers of The Wyoming Marriage Association
A PLACE CALLED HOME
Kendra and Daniel — Lost and Found Groom
Ellyn and Grif — At the Heart’s Command
Rebecca and Luke — Hidden in a Heartbeat
BARDVILLE, WYOMING
Cambria and Bodie — A Stranger in the Family
Jessa and Cully — A Stranger to Love
Hannah and Dax — The Rancher Meets His Match

WYOMING WILDFLOWERS
Donna and Ed — Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning
Matty and Dave — Almost a Bride
Taylor and Cal — Match Made in Wyoming
Lisa and Shane — My Heart Remembers
Eleanor and Cahill — A New World
Valerie and Jack — Jack’s Heart
Kalli and Walker — Rodeo Nights
Zoe and Matt — Where Love Lives
*Celebrate with Valerie and Jack in A Cowboy Wedding
Bexley and Kiernan — Making Christmas
 The Matchmakers of The Wyoming Marriage Association
A PLACE CALLED HOME
Kendra and Daniel — Lost and Found Groom
Ellyn and Grif — At the Heart’s Command
Rebecca and Luke — Hidden in a Heartbeat
BARDVILLE, WYOMING
Cambria and Bodie — A Stranger in the Family
Jessa and Cully — A Stranger to Love
Hannah and Dax — The Rancher Meets His Match

WYOMING WILDFLOWERS
Donna and Ed — Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning
Matty and Dave — Almost a Bride
Taylor and Cal — Match Made in Wyoming
Lisa and Shane — My Heart Remembers
Eleanor and Cahill — A New World
Valerie and Jack — Jack’s Heart
Kalli and Walker — Rodeo Nights
Zoe and Matt — Where Love Lives
*Celebrate with Valerie and Jack in A Cowboy Wedding
Bexley and Kiernan — Making Christmas
 PROLOGUE
Eighteen months ago
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Quick.”
The young man in the white lab coat with ironed-in wrinkles fanning from the breast pocket had
spilled a jumble of technical and sympathetic words from the instant he’d called Hall Quick out of the
hospital waiting room.
He’d talked all through their trip down corridors to a solitary room at the end, then all the way
back.
Those words thundered down too fast and from too far a distance for Hall to absorb them. Like a
drowning in reverse, sucking moisture out of his lungs, his veins, leaving him parched, trying to wet
chapped lips.
“Mr. Quick? If you have any questions…”
Hall wished the doctor — What the hell was his name? — would stay quiet. He wished the drunk
in a cubicle down the hall to the right would stop his hollering. Turn off the ringing phones, unplug the
machines whirring and clicking. All of it.
So there was silence.
A silence big enough and deep enough to let a man think.
The young doctor sucked in a breath as they neared the closed door of the private room where
they’d put the family after pulling them from the main Emergency Room waiting area. Hall should
have known then.
The intake of oxygen fueled more doctor words. Talking and talking and talking, as he had even
when he’d taken Hall to see Annie.
What used to be Annie.
“…if you’d like me to tell your children…”
“No.”
Hall’s shoulder jerked as if he’d pulled away from a touch. But the smaller man hadn’t touched
him.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll … arrangements … I don’t know—”
“The funeral home will know. Don’t worry about that.”
“Right. Okay.” He should have remembered that from his father. His father had been sick a long
time before he died. But Annie … “I’ll, uh, talk to my kids now. Thank you.”
Annie’s kids.
“Take as long as you need.” The doctor hurried away.
Hall wiped his right hand down the side of his work jeans. His hand had looked so dark and dirty
when he’d rested it on Annie’s bare shoulder. There’d been no thought to cleaning up or changing
clothes from planting alfalfa when he got the call.
He opened the door, then closed it carefully behind him before he faced them.
Molly and Lizzie sat close together, Lizzie slumped against her sister’s side. Molly’s hair flared
out as a vivid shadow across the white wall beyond the sofa. Lizzie’s fairer hair was harder to make
 out amid the flowers and vines twining on the sofa back. Bobby sat on Molly’s lap, watching her face
rather than the pages of a book she read to him.
Before Hall turned to Dan, his first-born’s voice came sharp and urgent.
“Where’s Mom? Can we see her?”
Dan’s voice skidded up on the last word.
His voice is changing. God, his voice is changing.
Dan had stood by himself at the window, but now he moved closer to the younger three.
ad Hall had thought Dan would be the only child for him and Annie. After Dan came along, Hall had
hetaken on more duties at the ranch, but he’d still eked out time to take a class. One a semester. Not
much, but progress. They’d take precautions. At least until he got his degree.
ay Then Annie announced she was pregnant again.
I don’t know why you’re upset, Hall. I’ll take care of this new baby, just like I take care of
aDanny.
et That had been the girls. Twins.
With Bobby, Annie hadn’t even bothered with those extra words. She’d just announced it, that
cream-licking smile of hers coming out.
nk Making babies is one thing we’re good at together, Hall. And raising ’em’s what I’m good at.
he Except she wasn’t here to raise them now.
“No, you can’t, Dan.” Hall cleared his throat.
Dan had been with him, helping with the planting. Reluctantly, as always. Nearly silently, as
always. At least with him.
re Your Mom’s had an accident. We gotta go. That’s all he’d said, already heading for the pickup.
ld The boy hadn’t asked anything until they hit the highway. Where is she? Is she okay?
They took her to the hospital, and I don’t know.
en Hall swallowed now, started again. “You can’t any of you see her. Not … not right yet.”
God, what did he say to them?
Annie always cared for the kids, tended their needs, heard their hopes, nursed their pains.
He remembered trying to hold Dan as a baby, trying to turn his big rough hands to bottle-feedings
and diaper-changes. Annie stepped in, guarding against gas or diaper rash. It made sense for Hall to
edsee to the ranch — there was always more work waiting to be done than there was time — and leave
the kids to Annie.
He crouched in front of the sofa, getting eye-level with the girls and Bobby. Dan stood behind
Hall, out of his line of sight.
ng “Your Mom had something real wrong with her. Something—”
“Because of the accident?” Molly asked.
The three younger kids had been in the truck with Annie when she went off the road short of the
Black Colt Creek Post Office. If she hadn’t been slowing to make the turn … but she had been, so the
tykids were fine. All the truck had were a few added scratches from the slide into the ditch. Mary
ngAlberts from the post office called the rescue squad.
“No. Not the accident. What was wrong with her was why the accident happened. She had
something called an aneurysm in her brain — in her head. It’s when the blood vessel, the uh, thing like
eda tube that the blood goes through, it gets weak and breaks—”
ke “No.” Dan whispered it. And again. “No.”
ce “But the doctors fixed it, right?” Molly asked.
Hall took off his hat, propped it on his bent knee and pushed his fingers through his hair. “They
couldn’t fix it. Nobody could fix it.”
Lizzie put her thumb in her mouth. Bobby looked up at Molly as she asked another question.
“Does it hurt her?”
“No. It doesn’t hurt her. Your Momma’s not going to be hurt by anything ever again. She’s … she’s
gone to heaven.”
ad Molly frowned at him in accusation. “You have to be dead to go to heaven.”
ot He nodded. A jerky motion, because the muscles in his neck didn’t work right. “Yes. Your
momma’s dead.”
Three of the four babies he and Annie had made stared back at him.
of Hall dropped forward to his knees, the straw hat crushed against the carpeted floor.
“Your momma’s dead.”
The silence expanded, slid in between them, swirled around them like the Wyoming wind.
hat Then into the silence came the voice of his oldest from behind him. Hot and dry and sharp.
“Why couldn’t it have been you? Why the hell couldn’t it have been you?”

as

gs
to
ve

nd

he
he
ry

ad
ke
 “But the doctors fixed it, right?” Molly asked.
Hall took off his hat, propped it on his bent knee and pushed his fingers through his hair. “They
couldn’t fix it. Nobody could fix it.”
Lizzie put her thumb in her mouth. Bobby looked up at Molly as she asked another question.
“Does it hurt her?”
“No. It doesn’t hurt her. Your Momma’s not going to be hurt by anything ever again. She’s … she’s
gone to heaven.”
Molly frowned at him in accusation. “You have to be dead to go to heaven.”
He nodded. A jerky motion, because the muscles in his neck didn’t work right. “Yes. Your
momma’s dead.”
Three of the four babies he and Annie had made stared back at him.
Hall dropped forward to his knees, the straw hat crushed against the carpeted floor.
“Your momma’s dead.”
The silence expanded, slid in between them, swirled around them like the Wyoming wind.
Then into the silence came the voice of his oldest from behind him. Hot and dry and sharp.
“Why couldn’t it have been you? Why the hell couldn’t it have been you?”
 CHAPTER ONE
“I had no idea Hall Quick would be so difficult,” Bexley Farber said in apology. “This makes three
possibilities we’ve arranged for him to meet by happenstance and three times he’s not been where he
was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there for happenstance to happen.”
“Life of a rancher,” said Rebecca, who was married to one. “Needs of the ranch come before
anything like a schedule, much less a social life, and for a one-man operation like Hall’s trying to
keep going, there are always needs.”
“Then how are we ever going to get him to meet someone?” Bexley asked the whole group. “Send
them to the ranch?”
“Worked for me.” Rebecca smiled. “If I hadn’t been on the ranch, Luke and I wouldn’t have been
thrown together and the magic wouldn’t have happened.”
Bexley chewed her lip. “Okay, but how do we get someone on the Quicks’ ranch? If Hall could
afford help, he wouldn’t be so busy that he never takes time to talk to other people or go to community
events and he might not need the Wyoming Marriage Association in the first place.”
“He’s got to get out some time,” objected Ellyn. She’d started this informal group they’d dubbed
the Wyoming Marriage Association, but they were all equal members. “Feed store, bank, grocery
store — any possibilities at his regular stops?”
“It’s got to be somebody strong. Dax has said a couple times how much Hall’s carrying on his
shoulders. He needs somebody strong enough to share that, not to add on by being somebody else he
has to take care of,” Hannah said. Her husband Dax Randall was another rancher and knew Hall
Quick.
“At the same time, he needs somebody who’ll remind him he has a sense of humor — I remember
how great his laugh was when we were kids,” Kendra said.
After a moment of mental inventory of the people at the places Hall Quick regularly frequented,
they all shook their heads.
“Also, remember, any candidate has to love kids — from a teenager to a toddler with the twins in
between.”
Rebecca grinned. “We won’t forget, Bexley. We’re half convinced you’re actually trying to make
a match for those four kids and Hall’s tacked onto the deal.”
She grinned back. “Well, Kiernan and I did get to know the kids during our time together at
Christmas, while Hall was delivering cattle in that blizzard.”
“What? You two had time for anybody other than each other?” Hannah teased.
Bexley didn’t have to answer because Kendra said abruptly, “There is a new teacher in Mason.”
Writing and editing for the local paper, she picked up a lot of news. “Vicky Otter, the senior teacher,
told me about her. She sounds … interesting. And that’s somebody he’d have to see regularly, since
she’s teaching his kids.”
“What does interesting mean?”
“Vicky seemed to really like her, but I also got the impression Vicky thinks the new teacher might
have ghosts in her past.”
 “Who doesn’t?” Ellyn asked.
“Especially who doesn’t when they come to teach at a two-room schoolhouse in Mason
Wyoming,” added Rebecca.
“Barely two rooms. They’re still using that plywood divider. But the first question is if this new
teacher’s single,” Ellyn said.
ee Kendra nodded. “Vicky said she is. What’s the second question?”
he “What’s her name?”
“Kenzie Smith.”
re
to *

nd“Kenzie? How much longer are you going to wait?” asked Vicky Otter.
Kenzie turned from the open back door she’d been looking out to her fellow teacher at the front of
enthe tiny school room.
“I thought I’d give him a few more minutes.”
ld Hall Quick, her last appointment for the day, was the father of twin girls, who represented a
tysignificant percentage of her students.
“It’s going on eight. The chicken I cooked can’t get much drier, but at least it’s warm,” Vicky said.
ed“Besides, you’ll be so far ahead on paperwork, you’ll throw the district into a tizzy.”
ry That might have been true if she’d done paperwork in the nearly two hours since her previous
conference — one mostly spent calming the nerves of a first-grader’s parents.
his She hadn’t taught students this young since training. Something new had been the reason for
hecoming here to Mason, Wyoming. So she’d gladly refreshed what she’d learned then and read up on
allthe latest methods.
She hadn’t considered how the parents might differ.
er She’d done her best not to think of the parents at all.
“You’re right. Let’s close up and have dinner.”
d, “Not much to close up, not much of a dinner,” muttered Vicky.
Kenzie bolted the back door and they locked the front door, both actions a nod to insurance
inrequirements rather than security.
First, there wasn’t much worth stealing. Beyond a tiny vestibule, side-by-side doors led to the
ketwo classrooms which, along with a furnace room and bathroom, filled the squat building.
Second, the teachers’ quarters — two trailers forming a V — were about a quarter of a city block
ataway, with nothing in between to obscure the view.
Third, crime remained a rarity in Mason, Wyoming.
Unless, Kenzie thought with a faint smile, you counted wildlife forays into the garbage in an effort
n.”to broaden their menu.
er, In Vicky’s trailer, Kenzie accepted a blue-rimmed plate and helped herself to broiled chicken,
cetomato and lettuce salad, green peas, and white rice. She and Vicky had fallen into a pattern in the
weeks since she’d arrived in Wyoming of splitting cooking several times a week.
If Vicky had been surprised the new teacher showed up weeks ahead of schedule, she never said
ghtso. Not much seemed to surprise or bother her.
Not only had she been teaching here for years, but she’d grown up in the area. Kenzie found her
 explanations of local geography, history, and customs invaluable.
on Kenzie pushed a pea into the rice, a solitary round, green object amidst a population of white
dashes that stuck together. She knew how it felt.
w “Quit fretting,” Vicky said. “Hall will know where to find you when he shows up.”
Kenzie hadn’t been thinking about the absent Hall Quick, but let Vicky’s comment guide the
conversation. “What about the children’s mother?”
“I thought you knew. Annie died, a year ago last spring. Brain aneurysm. One minute she was fine
and the next minute she was gone. Had the younger kids in the truck with her.”
“I had no idea.” Kenzie carefully laid her fork on the table. “I can imagine how hard it’s been for
those kids.”
“Hall, too.”
Kenzie’s father died long before her mother did. She had no experience with a husband’s grief.
of“Yes, I’m sure it is hard for Mr. Quick. But as the only parent, it’s even more important for him not to
miss conferences with the teacher of two of his children. Their education—”
“Three.”
a “What?”
“He missed conferences for three of his children.” Vicky tucked a strand of straight, dark hair
d.more firmly behind her ear, revealing a small congregation of gray at her temple. “He missed the
conference with me, too. And I particularly wanted to talk about Dan.”
us “Dan?”
“You say that like you didn’t know the kid existed. With all of us cozied up together, you’d have to
orwork hard not to notice. Eighth grader with sun-streaked hair a beach bunny would die for.”
on “One of your eighth graders.”
“Yeah.” Vicky’s dark brows slanted up. “One of my eighth graders. Of which I have exactly two.
And this one is not black-haired and full of himself. Dan’s the one I told you I’m nominating for the
scholarship to Cheyenne. First student I’ve had I thought was good enough.”
“I remember.” Vicky said a competitive scholarship sent the top few students from isolated
districts to an accelerated program at a high school in the state capitol. Otherwise, Mason students
ceattended their “local” high school, which meant a lengthy bus trip each way when the weather was
good, and isolation when it wasn’t. “They board in Cheyenne, then?”
he “Probably not the way you’re used to from where you taught back east. No dorm. Mostly they stay
with another family.”
ck Vicky was right that it was impossible not to know who all the students were. Kenzie had heard
Dan Quick say something today to Evan Kevery about living with an aunt in Cheyenne next year, in
response to Evan scoffing at Dan’s chances of going away for high school.
ort But, more than the boy’s future, Vicky’s comment on Kenzie’s recent past caught her attention.
No surprise she knew where Kenzie taught previously. As the senior teacher, Vicky naturally saw
n,Kenzie’s resume.
he But there was no requirement that Kenzie talk about it. She didn’t correct Vicky’s impression that
the Dalverston School had dorms. The handful of boarding students were housed in private suites in a
idgracious structure. Parents of Dalverstonians demanded no less.
Kenzie sipped water, then said, “I didn’t remember because I’ve got so much to keep me occupied
erwith my students, especially with being new and—”
 “Lying awake at night wondering what in damnation possessed you to come teach in the wilds of
teWyoming and if insanity is an excuse to get out of your contract before the school year’s up,” supplied
Vicky cheerfully.
“No. I never wonder that.”
he Vicky’s sharp look told Kenzie she’d been too serious.
The other teacher smoothed over the moment. “It’s a good thing, because I tried the insanity ploy
neand it didn’t work.”
Kenzie chuckled and the conversation turned to their students’ exploits this first week of school.
orBut later, as she cleared the built-in table in Vicky’s trailer — her task when Vicky cooked and vice
versa — talk returned to the no-show parent.
“There’ll be even more conferences for Hall before real long,” Vicky said as she filled the sink
ef.with soapy water. “There’s a boy who’s still at home. He must be about four, so if you don’t go nuts,
toyou’ll have him, too.
“Great.” Kenzie rubbed the blue-checked dishcloth on the thirty inches of counter space this
trailer boasted. As the new teacher, Kenzie had the older trailer, with twenty-four inches of counter
space. “You’re pretty cheerful about this man paying no attention to his children’s education.”
air “The Quick kids are darn good students and don’t have any more social or personality problems
hethan any other three kids their ages — especially for having lost their mother. You know what they
say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Kenzie thought about those words later as she crossed the darkness between the trailers, carrying
toa plate with the wedge of apple pie Vicky insisted she take.
With less competition, starlight here was a lot brighter than where she used to live. From growing
up in the mountains of North Carolina, she knew starlight could get you from one place to another,
o.especially without the Carolina trees to block it. Still, she needed to concentrate to negotiate the
heuneven ground.
A shadow detached itself from the two wooden steps that led to her trailer door. Too close for her
edto run back to Vicky’s trailer before—
nts Kenzie stood her ground. She could do nothing to stop her automatic gasp and recoil.
as “Damn.” A man swore under his breath before commanding irritably, “Don’t screech like that. I
didn’t mean to scare you.”
ay The shadow became a man’s broad-shouldered, cowboy-hatted shape looming directly in front of
her.
rd “Kenzie? You okay?” Vicky stood framed at the lighted door of her trailer peering out. “Is
insomebody else there?”
“It’s me, Vick,” the man called. “Hall Quick.”
“Hey, Hall, how’re you doin’?”
w Relief banged against Kenzie’s chest.
“Fine. I’ll come by and talk to you later about Dan, if that’s all right.”
hat “Sure. Any time.”
na Vicky closed her door, cutting off that ribbon of light.
Kenzie’s eyes had adjusted enough so she could separate man from shadow. He was enough taller
edthan her five-foot-six to make her initial impression that he loomed reasonable. He wore a denim
jacket over a light-colored shirt, faded jeans, and dusty work boots. He was broad under the jacket,
 ofnarrow under the jeans.
ed He cleared his throat and gave the door of her trailer a significant look.
Her relief ebbed, but adrenaline didn’t.
She wasn’t inviting any parent into her home, least of all this man, who didn’t bother to come on
time, but now probably expected a sociable cup of coffee, based on his exchange with Vicky. He
oymight even hope for a slice of pie. Forget it.
“You had an appointment at five-forty-five, Mr. Quick, concerning the welfare and education of
ol.your children. It is three hours after that.”
ce “I’m sorry I missed the time. I got hung up with repairs.”
“You could have called.”
nk He pushed back his straw cowboy hat. Starlight showed auburn hair — not as fair as Lizzie’s, not
ts,as red as Molly’s.
“Cell reception’s not real good by the Arrow Creek draw, Miss Kenzie.”
his “Please don’t call me that. Miss Kenzie might be acceptable from the children. As a parent,
erplease call me Kenzie or Ms. Smith.”
“But—” He closed his mouth with a clunk she thought was his teeth connecting. “Sorry I’m late,
msbut I’m here now, and—”
ey “You can message me in the morning or send a note with Molly and Lizzie, and we’ll reschedule a
time that’s mutually convenient and appropriate.”
ng He held so still and quiet that she was aware of the sound of her own breathing, of the push of the
breeze against her side.
ng “All right, Ms. Smith.”
er, She couldn’t pin anything on the tone and certainly not on the words. Yet he was irked. Yes, she
hedecided as he resettled his hat low over his eyes, definitely irked.
Too bad.
er “Good night, Mr. Quick.”
She reached her trailer’s door when his voice came from behind her. He hadn’t moved.
“One thing, Ms. Smith. I sure hope you’re teaching better math to my kids than to be thinking five-
. Iforty-five to nine-fifteen is three hours when it’s three and a half. Half-hour might not mean anything
where you’re from, but here it means thirty minutes of daylight, thirty minutes of work. That can make
ofa difference in a man’s day.”

Is

er
m
et,
narrow under the jeans.
He cleared his throat and gave the door of her trailer a significant look.
Her relief ebbed, but adrenaline didn’t.
She wasn’t inviting any parent into her home, least of all this man, who didn’t bother to come on
time, but now probably expected a sociable cup of coffee, based on his exchange with Vicky. He
might even hope for a slice of pie. Forget it.
“You had an appointment at five-forty-five, Mr. Quick, concerning the welfare and education of
your children. It is three hours after that.”
“I’m sorry I missed the time. I got hung up with repairs.”
“You could have called.”
He pushed back his straw cowboy hat. Starlight showed auburn hair — not as fair as Lizzie’s, not
as red as Molly’s.
“Cell reception’s not real good by the Arrow Creek draw, Miss Kenzie.”
“Please don’t call me that. Miss Kenzie might be acceptable from the children. As a parent,
please call me Kenzie or Ms. Smith.”
“But—” He closed his mouth with a clunk she thought was his teeth connecting. “Sorry I’m late,
but I’m here now, and—”
“You can message me in the morning or send a note with Molly and Lizzie, and we’ll reschedule a
time that’s mutually convenient and appropriate.”
He held so still and quiet that she was aware of the sound of her own breathing, of the push of the
breeze against her side.
“All right, Ms. Smith.”
She couldn’t pin anything on the tone and certainly not on the words. Yet he was irked. Yes, she
decided as he resettled his hat low over his eyes, definitely irked.
Too bad.
“Good night, Mr. Quick.”
She reached her trailer’s door when his voice came from behind her. He hadn’t moved.
“One thing, Ms. Smith. I sure hope you’re teaching better math to my kids than to be thinking five-
forty-five to nine-fifteen is three hours when it’s three and a half. Half-hour might not mean anything
where you’re from, but here it means thirty minutes of daylight, thirty minutes of work. That can make
a difference in a man’s day.”
 CHAPTER TWO
Hall let the truck glide to a stop by the house, saving what brakes it had for when he really needed
them, turned off the engine, and dropped his head back to the headrest that had long ago stuck with the
left side higher than the right.
He muttered a phrase that brought a memory — the scent of cinnamon and the sound of Grandma
Quick, his greatest champion while remaining no-nonsense to the core, saying with a lingering brogue
when she was particularly exasperated or weary, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, grant me strength.
For some reason this schoolteacher made him think of Grandma Quick.
Maybe it was the teacher squaring up to him in the dark, refusing to back down.
More likely a whiff of cinnamon he’d caught from the plate she’d been carrying. Nothing to do
with the woman at all. A fluke of olfactory senses and memory of his grandmother’s plea for strength.
To fill his strength deficit, he’d need to add a couple dozen saints, but he doubted any lined up in
heaven for that job.
He sure could have used a lineup of saints earlier today, when the combiner went out and —
especially — when the machine refused to work after six full hours of repairs. He’d counted on the
combiner lasting through the season, maybe next year. He would try again tomorrow for a stop-gap
fix, but even if he succeeded, it was time lost.
Just what he needed.
And now he’d need to apologize to the teacher. More than he would have for missing their
appointment.
He didn’t like getting caught off-guard. It surely didn’t bring out the best in him. Neither did
females who didn’t look long out of college, with dark hair softly waving around a gentle face and
framing startled-wide eyes, looking down their Eastern, educated noses at him.
He didn’t need her to remind him he’d screwed up.
He still shouldn’t have gone off.
The school conferences were on the calendar kept on the refrigerator door, and before he’d
headed out this morning he’d promised the girls he’d wear his new blue shirt.
He’d made no promise to Dan, because Dan hadn’t asked.
But the combiner drove every thought from Hall’s mind except the necessity of getting it going
without a major bite in the wallet. When the portable light he’d rigged to see into the guts of the
combiner also went out, he’d returned to the house planning to grab food, another light, and head right
back.
Instead, he’d faced his daughters.
There was nothing on this earth to make a man feel he was a worm, a monster, and a heathen like
that pair of tear-stained faces.
The moment they’d turned their pathetic countenances toward him and sighed in stereo, “Oh,
Daddy….” he’d have shoved the combiner off a cliff by himself.
In less than five minutes, he’d washed up and high-tailed it to see the teachers, supper-less.
He saw the light in Vicky’s trailer, but he figured he should meet with the other teacher first. Vicky
 would understand.
No answer to his knock. He’d figured he’d wait a couple minutes for her to return before going to
Vicky’s. He’d sat on the steps. He was near certain he hadn’t dozed, but the figure of a woman, her
shape silhouetted in the light from Vicky’s trailer, appeared awful sudden.
Okay, maybe he had drifted off.
ed That new teacher looked at him like he’d come straight out of a mudhole and talked like he’d kept
hethe Queen of Sheba waiting for the fun of it.
He still should have kept a rein on his temper. It wasn’t Molly’s or Lizzie’s fault he’d gotten little
masleep last night, wrestled with a combine most of the day, and missed supper. Or that this new teacher
uethey liked so much was a pain in the butt.
Noise from the house jerked him upright in the driver’s seat. Light poured from every window.
Crafty, the border collie who was allowed inside, was outside the back screen door, baying
because he was shut out. Benji, a beige mongrel with none of the winsomeness of the original, was on
dothe house side of the back door, barking frantically. Benji was not allowed in the house because he
combined a bad habit of depositing small, dead rodents as gifts in empty shoes with a tendency
intoward incontinence.
Hall shoved the truck door open.
— Benji abruptly stopped barking. As if in sympathy, Crafty’s baying ceased.
he To Hall, the silence screamed across the night.
ap He knew sympathy had nothing to do with Crafty’s restraint. Crafty didn’t want to call attention to
himself, because the only time Benji stopped asking to be let out was when nature had taken care of
that need already.
eir “Damnation.”
As Hall walked up the pathway to the back door, the silence abruptly splintered into the
idacrimonious voices of his three older children.
nd “I told you he had to go out, Dan.”
“And I told you and Lizzie Borden he shouldn’t have been let inside in the first place.”
“We didn’t precisely let him in,” objected Lizzie, who practiced precision like a religion.
“Well, I didn’t let him in precisely or otherwise, so I’ll be damned if I’m cleaning this mess up.”
’d “You’re not supposed to swear, Dan.”
“Shut up, Molly.”
“You shu—”
ng “Stop. All of you.” From inside the screen door three faces turned to Hall in unison. “Who let
heBenji in?”
ght “Nobody let him in—”
“Precisely— I know,” Hall interrupted Lizzie. Crafty whimpered pitifully to be let inside,
apparently considering the request safe now. “Let’s put it this way — who was holding the door open
keat the time Benji went from outside to inside.”
Dan looked smug, while Molly and Lizzie looked at each other.
Oh, “Me,” Lizzie admitted.
“Then you get the paper towel.” Crafty picked up volume. “And put Benji out— No! not until
you’ve cleaned up the mess, Lizzie, or he’ll track through it. Molly, go around the other way and bring
kyin Crafty before he shatters the windows. And you, Dan—” His oldest turned a look of outrage on his
 father. “—watch your language.”
to Ten minutes later, Hall was finally eating a baloney sandwich over the sink as his supper.
er Swallowing the last bite and washing it down with lukewarm water from the tap because
nobody’d filled the ice cube trays, he became aware of Lizzie and Molly sharing one door jamb and
Dan leaning on the other in the passage between the kitchen and family room. The girls stared at him
ptexpectantly. Dan tried to look bored.
“What the hell are you all doing up still?”
le “You shouldn’t swear,” Molly told him. “Grandma says we should remind you because sometimes
eryou get busy and forget.”
Dan said nothing, but Hall had no trouble reading the vindication in his eldest’s face.
“We’re not all up,” added Lizzie. “Bobby went to bed half an hour ago.”
ng More than an hour after his bedtime. Hall couldn’t let Bobby sleep in tomorrow, because day care
onon a single-parent Wyoming ranch was Bobby trailing him until his siblings returned from school.
he Hall headed into the family room.
cy “Did you talk to Miss Otter?” Dan asked, straining for casualness as Hall passed. The boy was
getting tall, past his shoulder already.
“No.” Damn, he’d totally forgotten. It made his answer harsh.
“But you saw our teacher, didn’t you?” Molly demanded.
“Isn’t Miss Kenzie wonderful?” Lizzie enthused.
to He turned to his daughters, bright-faced with expectation, no sign of the tear-ravaged tragedy
ofenacted earlier.
“I have a bone to pick with you two. Miss Kenzie’s not her name.”
They appeared identically unaffected by his accusation.
he “Actually, her full name is Kenzie Deborah Smith,” said Lizzie. “I saw it on her driver’s license
when she had her wallet open.”
“Then you should call her Miss Smith.” He remembered the dark-haired teacher’s words. “Or
Ms. Smith.”
“That’s ordinary. And she’s not ordinary at all.”
“So we decided to call her Miss Kenzie,” Molly added comfortably.
“You decided…?” He sat on the couch with a sigh. Immediately, he lifted his rump, grabbed the
half-clothed Barbie doll whose anatomical wonders had dug into his flesh, and dropped her on the
floor. The doll had been an unexpected gift from their maternal aunt. A package had arrived from
etAnnie’s sister, Naomi, out of the blue last summer, the first from her ever. “Next time, tell me the
whole story before you send me off to meet somebody you don’t call by her right name.”
“But it is her name,” objected Lizzie.
e, “I know, but—”
en “Besides,” Lizzie interrupted with ruthless logic, “you don’t listen to us most times anyway.”
He looked into the eyes of his precision-seeking daughter and felt like dropping his head in his
hands and staying that way for a couple decades.
“It’s past time for all of you to be in bed.”
til It wasn’t quite that simple. But before too much longer, both girls had gone up, and Dan was on
nghis way, pausing only to deliver a parting shot. “Lizzie Borden had one thing right, you never do
hislisten.”
 *

seAs Dan pounded up the stairs, Hall remembered his son saying this morning that Vicky had something
ndparticular to talk to him about.
m Hall’s lips twisted. At least she wasn’t the teacher he’d wrangled with.
He dropped his forearm over his eyes.
The shadowy image of the new schoolteacher came into his mind. Kenzie Smith. She probably
esknew exactly what to do with kids, how to talk to them, how to teach them.
Just like Annie.
He jerked to a sitting position and checked the clock. He’d slept almost an hour.
Upstairs, the door to the girls’ room was halfway open. Despite the hall light spilling across their
refaces, both girls slept deeply.
Lizzie was on her side, curled tight with one fist tucked against her cheek. Molly slept on her
back, the sheet under her small chin.
as They looked so calm … serene. The highs and lows of their day smoothed away to peace.
They’d cried when their grandmother got on the airplane to return to Arizona two weeks after
Annie’s funeral. But by the time everyone piled back in for the return haul to the ranch, they were dry-
eyed. And before they reached home, they were singing.
God, they healed fast.
dy He hadn’t felt like crying when his mother boarded the plane, but he had felt a pressure against his
chest. Maybe it was the continued weight of her words from the night before, when he’d asked her to
stay longer.
I could stay on a bit, Hall, but I don’t think that’s best for you and the children. It’s time you all
sefind your way together.
What if I can’t do it, Mom? He hadn’t said the words aloud. That hadn’t stopped her from
Oranswering.
You’ll do fine. You’ll learn — you’re already learning. It’s natural you’re worried how you’ll
get on. This has been a shock for you all. And it’s going to be a big change. Especially considering
how Annie … Well, that’s the past.
he Hall pulled the bedroom door nearly closed, leaving it cracked — he’d learned that lesson the
hefirst night after his mother left, when Lizzie’s middle-of-the-night screams woke the whole house.
m “She’s afraid of the dark,” Dan had said, full of disdain for his father’s ignorance.
he “Not afraid of the dark, precisely,” Lizzie had corrected between gulping air and diminishing
sobs. “Want to be able to see when I sleep.”
As he had every night since then, Hall adjusted the door so a thread of the dim hall light would be
visible inside and any cries during the night would be heard outside.
He crossed the hall to where his sons slept.
his The house had been built a century ago, and the narrow second story added maybe twenty-five
years later. The original house was snug and solid, but upstairs broiled in the summer sun, while
winter’s winds passed through like travelers in a hurry. These cool fall nights were the finest season
onfor these small rooms.
do He stepped in to pull the covers over Bobby, knowing he’d toss them off again.
Then he turned to where his first-born slept.
 Why couldn’t it have been you?
What happened to the sturdy boy who’d looked so like Bobby did now? Who’d followed Hall
ngaround on chubby legs and held out his arms to be lifted for the view from his father’s shoulders.
Now, even in sleep, Dan’s face reflected the anger and pain that had blazed from his eyes these past
months … or had those emotions been there longer?
Why the hell couldn’t it have been you?
ly Hall turned toward the master bedroom, then stopped. The time he stood there could be measured
only by a cascade of memories. The last one was Annie with the hospital white sheet pulled up.
Why couldn’t it have been you?
He turned sharply enough that his boot heel dug into the thinning carpet and went down the stairs
eirfor another night on the couch.

er *

An internal clock more strident than any alarm told Hall it was morning. He jerked his stiff neck
erruthlessly then stumbled into the kitchen, where he began his Thursday by downing the last three
y-aspirin in the bottle with a mouthful of cold coffee.
A new day was dawning.

his
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 Why couldn’t it have been you?
What happened to the sturdy boy who’d looked so like Bobby did now? Who’d followed Hall
around on chubby legs and held out his arms to be lifted for the view from his father’s shoulders.
Now, even in sleep, Dan’s face reflected the anger and pain that had blazed from his eyes these past
months … or had those emotions been there longer?
Why the hell couldn’t it have been you?
Hall turned toward the master bedroom, then stopped. The time he stood there could be measured
only by a cascade of memories. The last one was Annie with the hospital white sheet pulled up.
Why couldn’t it have been you?
He turned sharply enough that his boot heel dug into the thinning carpet and went down the stairs
for another night on the couch.

An internal clock more strident than any alarm told Hall it was morning. He jerked his stiff neck
ruthlessly then stumbled into the kitchen, where he began his Thursday by downing the last three
aspirin in the bottle with a mouthful of cold coffee.
A new day was dawning.
 CHAPTER THREE
“So, how’d your talk with Hall Quick go last night?”
Kenzie glanced toward where Molly and Lizzie Quick stood under a cottonwood, talking
earnestly, and sending occasional looks her direction. She didn’t want them to know the teachers
were discussing their father.
Vicky plopped onto the bench beside Kenzie while they watched their classes’ combined
enrollment of seventeen, ranging from six years old to thirteen, amuse themselves in the bright sun of
an early September noontime. They hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than good-mornings before
the kids arrived — the ancient bus delivering them early for some reason — so this was Vicky’s first
opportunity to quiz her.
Kenzie grimaced. “What talk?”
“You didn’t talk with Hall? I figured when he didn’t stop by my trailer, you two must have hit it
off.”
“We stopped short of hitting,” she said dryly. In the light of day, her behavior appeared less
justified, not to mention falling well short of an optimal start with the father of two students.
She had Vicky’s full attention. “You didn’t like Hall?”
“I have no basis for liking or not liking him. We had an unproductive initial conversation, simple
as that.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Kenzie might have made that a bit more emphatic than necessary.
“Okay. Putting that aside, what did you think of his looks.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t notice? I know for a fact you’ve got your sight, and you possess your share of brain
cells. It must be your blood. It must be green or yellow or something. It’s sure not red. Because I don’t
know a red-blooded woman who wouldn’t at least notice Hall Quick.
“The face. The body. The availability. A man who looks like that with half a brain, all his teeth,
and without a wife riding shotgun isn’t that easy to come by around here. All those magazine articles
might tell you how men outnumber women in the west. What they don’t tell you is you have to drive
three and a half days to see one. And you could be on the road for months finding another one the
quality of Hall Quick. He’s got both halves of his brain and all the other equipment you could want.”
Kenzie said tightly, “There are rules about teachers socializing with a current student’s parent.”
Vicky laughed. “Not around here there aren’t. There are so few people around here that if you
made rules like that there’d never be any socializing at all.”
“Then why don’t you snap him up?”
“That ship sailed when we were kids. Never launched, in fact. I was the older woman. We’re
friends.”
“Well, we’re not. We argued. No, that’s too dignified. We squabbled.”
“You did, huh?”
Kenzie faced the other teacher. In the short time she’d been in Wyoming, she’d truly come to like
 Vicky Otter. She was smart, generous, funny, friendly—and sometimes irritating. She demanded,
“What’s that tone supposed to mean?”
“Miss Kenzie?”
Kenzie jumped at Molly’s voice at her elbow. She and her sister stood two feet away. How long
had they been there? What had they heard?
“Yes, Molly?”
ng The child strung out words on a single exhaled breath. “Miss Kenzie, our daddy would like you to
rscome to supper Sunday, you should come at seven o’clock to our ranch, anybody can give you
directions, just ask for the Q-T Ranch.”
ed “He’s sorry for missing the conference,” announced Lizzie.
of “Real sorry,” Molly confirmed. “And he’d like to make it up to you with a home-cooked meal
reSunday.”
rst The man she’d encountered last night sent his daughters as apologetic emissaries?
Gentling her disbelief, Kenzie said, “That’s very nice of you both — and, uh, your father, but I
don’t think—”
it “Chicken.”
Vicky’s taunt floated into Kenzie’s ear and directly to her nerves. Jerking her head around, she
sstook the full force of Vicky’s look of glinting challenge.
“That’s not—”
“I mean you’ll probably have chicken. You know, for dinner?” Vicky’s eyes widened in artless
leinnocence. “It’s a fine old tradition, having the teacher to Sunday dinner.”
“It might not be chicken.” A frown tucked between Lizzie’s brows. “Daddy says even if
everybody else follows some slick advertising campaign to eat chicken, we should stick with beef,
since that’s our business. Though he does eat a lot of bologna sandwiches. Is that beef?”
“We’ll have chicken,” Molly said hurriedly, as if the menu would decide Kenzie.
What did decide Kenzie were identical anxious expressions trained on her.
in “I’d be happy to come to dinner Sunday.” It was a fib in a good cause.
n’t
*
th,
esHall’s mood wasn’t quite as black as his hands. There’d been no rest for him this Sunday, but at least
vehe’d gotten in the combining.
he He’d spent Thursday battling with the machine before an afternoon run, first to Sheridan and then
to Billings, for a part that might as well have been made of gold for what it cost. It took almost all of
Friday to put in the part and get the combiner working. Since then, with nearly three days’ worth of
oucatching up to do, he’d worked as many hours as there were.
He was nearly back on track.
On the downside, he felt like a piece of raw meat rolled in cracker crumbs and fried. Particles of
regrain clung to every inch of his skin, sifting inside his clothes, where it itched and chafed as the sun
stirred plenty of sweat for it to stick to. All he wanted was a long, hot shower, a beer, and a ballgame
on TV. Football or … were the Rockies playing tonight?
Trying to recall a baseball schedule he’d barely glanced at six days ago, he didn’t notice the
keunfamiliar blue-green car ahead of him until the last few yards of the long dirt drive to the house.
 d, His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out the driver emerging from the car. A breeze pushed at
the fabric of her tan slacks, showing the shape of her thigh, then masking it, then showing it again. A
stronger push from the wind molded the pants against her ass — a very nice ass. Who the hell was
ngshe?
Dark hair with soft waves coming down to her shoulders. Soft-looking face, too, except for the
pointed chin that spelled stubborn. Couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but he had a feeling
tothey were dark. Dark enough to look black when they opened wide and—
ou The new teacher.
When his truck coasted to a stop and he swung out, she stood beside her car. Her tentative, cool
smile slipped as she considered his appearance.
al “Miss Kenz— Ms. Smith.” He started to offer a hand to shake, caught sight of it and pulled back
as she raised hers. After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped her hand to clasp her other in front of
her.
t I “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Combiner’s kicking out a lot of grit.”
“That must be, uh, uncomfortable.”
“I’ll be glad of a shower, but at least the damn— uh, darned thing is kicking something out now.
heTook two more days to get it to do anything.”
A puzzled frown. “But … but I thought you were a cattle rancher.”
“Ranchers round here do a little of everything, including farming. Grain, hay, if you’ve got enough
sswater short-season corn if the weather’s good. Not this year, not with the dryness. It’s cheaper to
grow yourself than buy — if your machinery holds up.”
if The final words reminded him of missing the conference. That must be why she was here, wanting
ef,another strip out of his hide for not making a new appointment. He’d told himself he’d do that as soon
as he caught up.
“Look, I know we need to talk about the girls’ progress, but this isn’t a good time.”
Not a good time, wasn’t the first phrase that came to mind, but he was minding his manners this
go-round.
“But … I don’t unders—” Whatever she hadn’t understood apparently became abruptly and —
from her expression — excruciatingly clear to her. But not to him. “Of course. I’ll go now, although
we do need to—”
ast The sch-whap of the screen door was followed almost immediately by twin squeals.
“Miss Kenzie!”
en “Miss Kenzie! Oh, you’re here! I’m so glad!”
of “Hello, Lizzie. Hello, Molly. I’m here, but I’m afraid this isn’t going to work out for—”
of “Oh, no!” they wailed in unison.
“You have to stay,” added Molly. “We’ve been getting ready all day for supper.”
“Supper?” repeated Hall. His daughters were passable at sandwiches, cereal, and washing fruit,
ofbut his mind refused to produce an image of them preparing a meal.
un “But you told me your father invited me to dinner.”
me Kenzie Smith’s gentle reproof didn’t seem to faze either of his daughters. It about knocked him
over.
he “Molly? Lizzie? What the h— What’s this about?”
Molly condescended to say, “We were helping you out,” before turning to Kenzie to continue her
 atearnest explanation. “Grandma says we have to help Daddy as much as we can because he’s got a big
Aload to carry and still has some rough edges.”
as “Molly!”
“What?”
he “That is what Grandma said,” Lizzie assured him.
ng He opened his mouth, but before anything came out, Kenzie Smith said, “That’s important — for
families to help each other out.”
Something in her tone made him close his mouth. To her, there was more meaning behind those
olwords than platitudes — he’d wager a new combine on it.
“But,” the teacher continued, “you need to talk to the person, so you know which part of the load
ckthey need help with.”
of Lizzie nodded. “We know what’s going to help, because Daddy said so.”
“I never said anything about supper—”
“Oh, no,” interrupted Molly breezily. “That was our idea. You said you were sorry and you
always forgive us faster if we’ve been bad after you’ve had something to eat. So, we thought if we
w.gave Miss Kenzie something to eat, she’d forgive you faster when you told her you’re sorry about
missing the conferences.”
“You are sorry, aren’t you, Daddy?” Lizzie pinned him with her clear gray eyes.
gh “That’s not the issue. You two shouldn’t—”
to “But you told us you were sorry, Daddy,” Molly insisted. “The very next morning you ’pologized
for forgetting, and you said you’d have to ’pologize to Miss Kenzie. You were even sorry for missing
ngDan’s conference. That’s what you said.”
on “He didn’t say that exactly, Molly,” objected Lizzie. “Not that last part about Dan.”
Molly’s chin assumed a stubborn angle. “He started telling Dan he was sorry, before Dan walked
out.”
his “But he didn’t get all the way done saying it.”
“Girls, this isn’t—”
— “He would have if Dan had let him finish.”
gh “I don’t see how you can know what he was going to—”
Hall talked louder. “Girls, this isn’t the time to discuss this. When you have someone to supper
—”
“Oh, no, I can’t stay. I can see this was the result of … um, miscommunication.”
Hall stepped back, and left the new teacher to fend for herself against the tidal wave of protests
from Molly and Lizzie.
He couldn’t blame the woman for wanting to get away. Hell, he was surprised she’d come at all
considering their first meeting. It must have taken some gumption facing the bear in his cave, so to
it,speak. Maybe she wasn’t the type to make a snap judgment, maybe—
Hall remembered what the house looked like when he’d left this morning. Nothing at this second
meeting was likely to improve Kenzie Smith’s first impression of him as a father.
m But he wasn’t in the least surprised when she raised her hands in surrender to Molly and Lizzie,
and said she’d stay.
“I’d best take a shower. Girls, why don’t you show Ms. Smith around — outside.” He glanced at
erthe teacher’s low-cut tan shoes and added, “But not by the creek.”
 ig He would scoop up the worst of the mess in the family room and kitchen, shower, shave, and with
some luck — a lot of luck — he would have clean clothes. Somewhere.
A half dozen strides away, he thought of another danger and added, “And don’t take her inside the
corral.”

or *

seKenzie followed cautiously while Molly and Lizzie moved with the certainty of being in their native
habitat. They sped over the uneven ground, never watching their feet, yet unerringly bypassing both
adprickly plants and animal droppings.
Molly chattered about four reddish-brown horses that watched them from the far side of one
fence-enclosed rectangle. She wove in their names, their parentage, their abilities, and their habits.
She flung a casual arm in the direction of various buildings that formed a rough semi-circle on one
ouside of the open area where Kenzie had parked.
we Lizzie confined her comments to pinning down details — “Buster only bucked Dan off once. The
utother time was the Feltons’ colt.” — that her sister sketched out.
Kenzie hadn’t been to a ranch before. But she wasn’t merely satisfying curiosity. She was here to
see two of her students in their home environment, which could only contribute to her ability to teach
them.
ed Yet, when she’d taught at the Dalverston School, she hadn’t seen students’ homes. Except one. A
ngformer student by then. And she hadn’t been there to see the student.
Her footsteps echoed in the two-story entry hall. Pale green walls, sparkling white woodwork,
light flowing down from the chandelier …
ed “Ms. Smith?”
She jolted.
Hall Quick stood a yard behind her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
His words were light, but a frown tucked his brows together.
Twice now she’d jumped like the man was an apparition. He’d think his daughters’ teacher was
afraid of her own shadow.
er “Molly, Lizzie, have you fed the dogs?”
“But Dad—”
“It’s past time. Not nice to leave them hungry while you have fun.”
sts The girls rushed off.
Kenzie said, “I hope you don’t mind my accepting this invitation from Molly and Lizzie. I mean
allinitially, and—” She tipped her head toward her car. “Before.”
to “You didn’t stand a chance against those two.” His face shifted, almost reaching a smile. He
moved past her, putting his hands on the top rail of the fence separating them from the horses.
nd“Accepting an invitation, huh? That’s a nice way of saying being badgered to death. You’re quite a
diplomat, aren’t you?”
e, That didn’t sound entirely complimentary.
She mimicked his position, moving her hands across the rail. “I wanted Molly and Lizzie to know
atI appreciated their hospitality,” she said. “Your girls are quite determined.”
“Yeah. They get that from their mother.”
 th She drew in a slow breath. “Vicky told me about the girls’ mother — your wife. I am so sorry for
your loss, Mr. Quick — your entire family’s loss.”
he He showed no inclination to fill the crack she left, so she continued. “As their teacher, I am
naturally most concerned about Molly and Lizzie’s welfare. Already, I can see they are both strong-
minded girls, who—”
“You mean they don’t listen to a damned thing I say. They get that from their mother, too.”
Despite the matter-of-factness of his words, she stifled a wince as she slid her hands along the
verail’s surface. “It’s not necessarily that they don’t listen to you or don’t want to please you. Kids that
thage have so much energy…”
He grunted, a no-kidding agreement.
ne “And they don’t always know what to do with their emotions.”
ts. He turned toward her, started to say something. Changed it to, “You’re bleeding.”
ne “What?”
“Your hand. It’s bleeding.”
he Before she could raise her hand to look at it, he took control of it, wrapping his thumb and little
finger around her wrist and using his other fingers as a tray to hold her open hand up to his inspection.
to “Splinter,” he diagnosed.
ch Her wince had not all been from his words, yet she hadn’t even noticed.
“I’ll just—”
A “Hold still.” He reinforced the command by not relinquishing her hand. Frowning as he bent over
it, he said, “I, uh, don’t know what all’s waiting for you inside. They’ve cleaned up some, but what
k,they plan to feed you … Still, seemed like with them wanting this so much they should get it. They
haven’t been hit as hard by their mother’s death as Dan, but—”
“Children show grief in different ways.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He pulled a pocketknife out, flicked it open one-handed and rested the blade
lightly on the heel of her hand. In a quick motion, he pressed it against his ring finger, catching the
sliver of wood, then lifted. “Got it.”
as She felt the sting momentarily before he pressed his thumb against the spot.
“It’ll stop bleeding soon. Losing their mom was real hard on them, but Molly and Lizzie seem to
be doing pretty good.”
Warding off the sensation — the sting of the splinter and its removal, of course — she said, “Girls
at their age tend to internalize what’s happening around them. Boys act it out, so you see what’s
happening. With Molly and Lizzie you’re more likely to see indications of how they’re processing
antheir grief in play with dolls or in their imaginary life. Later on, though, in their early to mid-teens,
they could show more of a tendency to certain behaviors. Rebellion against authority, earlier sexual
Heexperiences, experimentation with alcohol—”
es. Hall Quick uttered one expletive.
a He’d clearly been thinking, or at least hoping, his daughters escaped being traumatized by their
mother’s death. And she’d been reeling off reactions like a clinician.
“It doesn’t mean it has to be that way,” she said. “Those are tendencies. Every child reacts
wdifferently. As long as you give them an opportunity to talk about what’s bothering them … That’s the
most important element, that a child has a trusted adult to talk to. An adult who will ask open-ended
questions to get them talking if that’s what—”
or “Here.” He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket. “Wrap this around your hand in case it’s still
oozing.”
m “Oh, I can’t—
g- “It’s clean.”
“That’s not … If I bleed on it—”
“Better on that than your clothes.”
he There was something appealing in his combination of off-hand generosity and practicality.
hat “Thank you.”
She fumbled a one-handed effort to wrap it around her hand.
As he closed the pocketknife to take over, she saw a short slice of red on his ring finger.
“You cut yourself.”
“Barely a scratch.” He knotted the cloth. “That’ll hold long enough to—”
“Miss Kenzie, Daddy, it’s time for supper now.”

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 “Here.” He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket. “Wrap this around your hand in case it’s still
oozing.”
“Oh, I can’t—
“It’s clean.”
“That’s not … If I bleed on it—”
“Better on that than your clothes.”
There was something appealing in his combination of off-hand generosity and practicality.
“Thank you.”
She fumbled a one-handed effort to wrap it around her hand.
As he closed the pocketknife to take over, she saw a short slice of red on his ring finger.
“You cut yourself.”
“Barely a scratch.” He knotted the cloth. “That’ll hold long enough to—”
“Miss Kenzie, Daddy, it’s time for supper now.”
 CHAPTER FOUR
“You sit at the table. You, too, Daddy. We’re taking care of everything.”
They had spread an old quilt over a table set on one side of a kitchen that opened into a living
area.
A toy chest beside the fireplace didn’t quite close. The books pulled into a rough stack on the
coffee table revealed their former locations from rectangles in the dust. A large black sock clung to
the kick-pleat of the aging sofa.
In the center of the dining table, the girls had spread yellow leaves around two stocky off-white
candles as their centerpiece. Six plates, each with knife, fork, and spoon in the center of it, along with
a sprig of yellow and fading leaves, sat in front of one of the chairs. Except one plate, where the
leaves were drab brown.
“No, don’t sit there,” Lizzie said as Kenzie started to take that spot. “That’s where Dan sits. You
sit here, between Molly and me.”
“We learned about festive tables at Christmas from Bexley and Pauline,” Molly said proudly.
“It didn’t look exactly like this, though.” Lizzie’s frown cleared. “Must be because it’s not
Christmas now.”
“No, it’s not,” Kenzie agreed. “Are Bexley and Pauline relatives of yours?”
“Oh, no. There was a blizzard and we were all together for Christmas, with Eric and Kiernan and
Gramps, too, and we had the best time. Except Daddy wasn’t there. But they couldn’t do anything
about that when he had to get those cattle to market. And we made decorations and sang and—”
They chattered on about being snowbound over the holiday at their grandfather’s small store well
north of here with four other stranded strangers. Or was Gramps the owner’s name and he was a
stranger, too?
But they were very clear on Bexley and Kiernan being engaged now and that Eric was a lawyer,
while it was a little less clear if Pauline was his assistant or ran his life.
“While you do that, how about if I fill the glasses,” Hall said.
They accepted that help without much attention, Lizzie busy stirring something in a bowl and
Molly focusing on loading and unloading the microwave.
“Water? Milk?” Hall added to Kenzie, “I might have a beer somewhere.”
“Water would be great.”
As he returned with two waters, she saw why he’d usurped that duty.
The quilt had raised stitching that made placement of the glasses hazardous.
She shifted her plate to one side to give him a flat surface, then did the same with each of the
girls’ plates when he brought their milks. He acknowledged her cooperation with a lift of one brow.
He did the same at Dan’s place. At Bobby’s, he set the barely half-filled glass on a small plate.
Lizzie abruptly shouted, “Dan, Bobby, supper’s ready.”
Hall said quickly, “I’ll go get them. You and Molly have enough to do.”
Lizzie nodded solemnly.
He headed up the stairs, returning in a minute carrying a toddler boy with an arm comfortably
 slung around his father’s neck and the young teenager Kenzie recognized as Vicky’s student, Dan.
“Bobby, this is Ms. Smith.”
“Miss Kenzie,” Molly called.
“Hi, Ken-see,” the boy said.
Dan snorted.
“Say hello to Ms. Smith,” his father ordered.
ng He muttered a greeting.
She replied, then focused on Bobby.
he No need to draw him out. Unlike the two older males in the family, he appeared to have no shell.
toWhen Lizzie invited him to Tell Miss Kenzie about Christmas, he complied with dizzying relish.
“Hard to believe he didn’t talk much until then,” Molly said proudly.
te “Not that he couldn’t,” Lizzie added for clarity, “because he could and he had before, but he
thdidn’t want to for a while until then.”
he Kenzie had seen what they were cycling in and out of the microwave, trying to make multiple
meals ready at the same time, so she was prepared when they brought the first one to her, as the guest.
ou She smiled and said thank you as Molly, flickering from a wide smile to concentration, placed the
plastic container on the plate in front of her. The broccoli and carrots were bright and steaming. Next
to them, bubbling cherry liquid oozed over a pastry crust. In the center, a cutlet of chicken sat atop a
otbed of white rice with sauce coagulating in one corner. Ice crystals winked at her from the meat.
Lizzie, obviously the runner-up in the meal-delivery sweepstakes, placed another plastic dish in
front of her father. This one had cubes of beef in a dark gravy, with noodles, green beans, and another
ndbubbling pastry — something that was apple judging by the color. No ice crystals that she could see.
ng Kenzie looked up, and met Hall Quick’s gaze just as it left the plate in front of her.
“Girls, maybe Ms. Kenz— uh, Ms. Smith would rather have this dinner. Sure smells good, so—”
ell “No!” Molly’s shout stopped him with his plate in one big hand in mid-air. “Miss Kenzie’s got to
ahave the chicken. Miss Otter said so. It wouldn’t be Sunday dinner without it being chicken, and—”
Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “—that’s the only chicken one we have left.”
er, “I’m sure it will be delicious, thank you.” Kenzie gave the reassurance to the girls, and when they
turned away to get the next plate emerging from the microwave, she looked directly at their father to
add reassurance there.
nd His frown eased as he replaced his plate on the table, and humor glinted in his eyes. “Gotta be
chicken, huh? Those are fighting words around here. Somebody who insists on chicken in beef
country deserves what she gets.”
“That’s fair.” She smiled, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
Dan scraped his chair back, the noise jolting along Kenzie’s nerves. “I’m not eating this crap. I’ll
make my own.”
he “Dan, that’s—”
w. Hall’s reprimand was silenced by Molly. “Good. We didn’t have enough for you, anyway. There’s
enough macaroni and cheese for Lizzie and Bobby and me but you eat too much. But you can have
dessert,” she added magnanimously.
Dan growled something too low for his father to hear and slammed around in drawers and at the
refrigerator. Kenzie sat with her hands in her lap, alternately fighting flinches at Dan’s noise and
lylaughter at Molly and Lizzie’s cooking consultations.
 By the time the macaroni and cheese was dished up, Dan had returned to the table with a double-
decker sandwich with slabs of tomato and enough bologna to keep Oscar Mayer singing for joy.
“You can’t eat yet, Dan,” Molly said. “We have to say grace.”
“We never say grace,” he protested. But he put the sandwich on his plate.
“Can’t say never, Dan,” Lizzie said. “We do sometimes.”
“Yeah, Lizzie Borden? When was the last time—?”
“Christmas.”
“Doesn’t count. That was somebody else’s house.”
ll. “It wasn’t a house, precisely—”
Molly plowed in on her sister’s side. “Last time here was Easter before last, when—” She broke
off.
he A thick silence fell.
The only movement was from Bobby, who was pulling his paper napkin toward the edge of the
letable to grab the fork on top of it.
t. Easter before last. The last family celebration before their mother’s death? Hall and his three
heolder children seemed momentarily frozen by the memory.
xt “Often the guest of honor is asked to say grace,” Kenzie said. “I would be happy to say grace if
ayou would like. Molly? Lizzie?”
Lizzie looked at Molly, who nodded.
in “Oh, Lord, we thank you for your bounty. The bounty of the land, the bounty of the sky, and the
erbounty of the ocean. Amen.”
“Amens” hopscotched around the table, with neither Dan nor Bobby contributing.
Lizzie followed her “amen” up immediately. “But we don’t have anything from the ocean. The
chicken’s from the sky, and the rest’s from the ground, but nothing’s from the ocean.”
to “That’s very observant, Lizzie,” Kenzie said with a smile.
—” “Have you seen the ocean?” Molly asked.
“I have.”
ey That started questions from the girls that kept conversation going while they all ate. Kenzie tried
toto fill their curiosity about what an ocean looked and sounded and smelled and felt like.
Hall had joined Dan and Bobby in the silence of the Quick males, but she felt his attention.
beEspecially when she bit into a frosty piece of chicken with audible results. She swallowed.
ef If she slighted the meal in any way it would hurt these girls who had tried so hard. And kept
working hard now at being good hostesses.
They cleared the table, then returned with a bowl that threatened to slosh red over its sides as
’llLizzie carried it.
Dan immediately said, “I’m not eatin’ that. I’m having ice cream.”
“But you gotta have the dessert we made. We made Jell-O special, because Miss Kenzie likes
’sstrawberries, and the ice cream’s just vanilla.”
ve “This isn’t Jell-O, it’s red juice. You didn’t get it cold enough.”
“We used cold water.”
he “You gotta leave it in the fridge for hours, stupid.”
nd “Dan.”
Hall’s growl earned a scowl from his son. It was hot and hard enough that Kenzie felt it heating
e-her cheeks as its path passed her.
But the girls’ crestfallen faces showed they’d already recognized the truth of what Dan said.
“You could have both.” Kenzie slid in her suggestion, focusing on the girls on either side of her.
“You could have ice cream and spoon some, uh, Jell-O over it as a sauce. And if you put what’s left
in the refrigerator, later you’ll have regular Jell-O, too.”
Both of them brightened.
“Okay.”
Hall helped the girls dish up the hard ice cream, clearly trying to aid their efforts as much as he
tactfully could.
ke Kenzie watched the girls happily chattering with occasional responses from their father.
But at the table, silence reigned.
She felt Dan’s curious look, but didn’t return it.
he Instead, she faced Bobby. “Do you like stories?”
He nodded, solemn-eyed.
ee “What are your favorites?”
“Octopus,” he shouted suddenly.
if “That’s not a whole story.” Lizzie brought the first bowl of ice cream to Kenzie.
Molly put the next one at her father’s place. “He said that because he just learned the word. He
likes new words. We read him stories and all our homework.”
he Another trip by each of the girls, then Hall brought the last two bowls.
Throughout it, with a few questions from Kenzie, they described the things they read to Bobby,
with punctuations of repeated words from Bobby, along with octopus thrown in.
he The only other interruption was when Hall looked up and said, “This is really good, girls. You
have a hit on your hands.”
They beamed.
He met Kenzie’s gaze for a moment, and she read thanks in his for her face-saving suggestion.
In that instant, his look changed.
ed And she felt something vibrate in her with the same change.
No.
n. No way on earth.
No.
pt She jerked her head around, searching for something to say, something to smother, deny, eradicate
the change, even as the vibration held on.
as “Sharing stories with your brother is not only generous, but it helps you two learn,” Kenzie said to
the girls. “To explain something to someone else, you have to understand it yourself, so it’s making
you both better at doing your homework and reading.”
es She searched for a way to include the older boy. Somehow. It was too obvious she wasn’t talking
to him, or involving him in the conversation. Sure, he wasn’t her student, but … she had it. “And you
can do that with your older brother, too—” she smiled in his vicinity. “—while he’s studying for the
scholarship test to—”
Hall interrupted. “What scholarship test?”
“If you’d bothered to talk to Miss Otter you’d know,” Dan grumbled.
ng Hall ignored him and demanded of Kenzie. “What scholarship test?”
 “The state-wide test. For the program in Cheyenne.”
“No.”
er. She blinked. It didn’t change his hardened face or his dour word.
eft The man who’d smoothed things for his daughters was gone.
“It’s a wonderful program. And Vicky — Miss Otter says your son is exactly the sort of fine
student it’s designed to help and—”
“My son doesn’t need that sort of help. He’s not leaving home.”
he The clatter of wood on wood jolted Kenzie like a shot. Dan stood, his chair upended on the floor
behind him, hands fisted, chest heaving, glaring at his father.
“You couldn’t make anything of yourself so you won’t let me, either! You’re a bastard. A fu—”
The father stood, the movement stopping the boy’s words. Across the angle of the table, they
stared at each other. “Daniel, you will apologize to our guest and your sisters. Then you will go to
your room.”
The tension vibrated between man and boy. Yet, oddly, she thought the man was less tense, more
certain than he had been.
The boy’s eyes raked those still seated at the table. “Sorry for swearing.” His glare settled on his
father. “But you can go to hell.”
He He spun away and ran out the door.

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 “The state-wide test. For the program in Cheyenne.”
“No.”
She blinked. It didn’t change his hardened face or his dour word.
The man who’d smoothed things for his daughters was gone.
“It’s a wonderful program. And Vicky — Miss Otter says your son is exactly the sort of fine
student it’s designed to help and—”
“My son doesn’t need that sort of help. He’s not leaving home.”
The clatter of wood on wood jolted Kenzie like a shot. Dan stood, his chair upended on the floor
behind him, hands fisted, chest heaving, glaring at his father.
“You couldn’t make anything of yourself so you won’t let me, either! You’re a bastard. A fu—”
The father stood, the movement stopping the boy’s words. Across the angle of the table, they
stared at each other. “Daniel, you will apologize to our guest and your sisters. Then you will go to
your room.”
The tension vibrated between man and boy. Yet, oddly, she thought the man was less tense, more
certain than he had been.
The boy’s eyes raked those still seated at the table. “Sorry for swearing.” His glare settled on his
father. “But you can go to hell.”
He spun away and ran out the door.
 CHAPTER FIVE
Sunday evenings were the worst for Vicky Otter.
A restlessness seeped into her that she couldn’t — or didn’t want to — explain. Not even to
herself.
At first, she’d made Sunday evenings time to plan. By the first of October she’d known plans
burned and crumbled like fire ash. But she hadn’t let go of planning until March. Wasn’t that just like
her, holding on long past stubborn.
You’d think she’d never heard the phrase cut your losses.
She spread the book she wasn’t reading on the arm of the sofa and looked out the window,
wondering how Kenzie was faring at Q-T Ranch.
She also wondered how long Kenzie would last. And what brought her here, though Vicky knew
that story would come — it always did.
One or two had told readily. Most clung to their secret until it gushed out one night. October,
November, December, even one not until February — it always came out.
So she would wait for Kenzie’s secret. But gauging how long she would stay was another matter.
Otherwise how would Vicky know when to cut her losses.
A flick of motion caught her attention. Kenzie Smith’s car.
Vicky’s knock was perfunctory on Kenzie’s trailer door, she was opening it before Kenzie
finished calling out “Come in.”
She flopped onto the couch as she studied Kenzie.
With motions half jerky, half fluid, like a wind-up toy meant to glide across the ground but with
crossed wires making it jump and twitch, Kenzie took an open bottle of pinot grigio from the
refrigerator and lifted it questioningly to Vicky, who nodded.
“So, how’d it go? You and Hall come to blows this time?”
Kenzie finished pouring white wine into a glass she’d purchased — a set in cardboard like a six-
pack of beer — on a stock-up trip to Casper. She set the glass on a coaster beside Vicky. Using a
coaster had to be out of habit, because adding a ring to the marks on the end table would be like a
grain of dirt in the Big Horn Mountains.
Kenzie poured her own glass, snagged another coaster, and sat on the other end of the couch
before answering.
“It was a disaster.”
Vicky considered her a moment. “Yikes — you mean it.”
“I mean it. Starting with the fact he had no idea I was coming, much less invited me. And I have to
apologize to you.” Vicky’s eyebrows climbed, but she didn’t interrupt. “I said something about the
scholarship program — innocuous, I thought. But Hall Quick’s reaction made it clear he hadn’t known
and it’s a touchy subject.”
“Damn,” Vicky said softly. Then she repeated the word with more emphasis, staring at the fake
paneling under the window.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know — but that’s no excuse. I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t
 have…”
Vicky grimaced. “I won’t say I’m glad, but I should have talked to Hall by now. I told myself I
was working on the best way to approach him. But maybe I was putting it off.”
Kenzie let out a huff of air and her shoulders eased. She took her first swallow of wine. Vicky had
no trouble interpreting that. Kenzie had worried she might be breaking the news to Vicky that Hall
objected.
to “I can’t believe it would be necessary to strategize the best way to approach a father about such a
great educational opportunity — not a father who cared about his son.”
ns Vicky picked up her wine glass, sank back against the cushions and sipped. “Hall cares. But it’s
kecomplicated.”
“Oh, yes, he lectured me about that — about how a ranch runs and how he needs his son’s labor to
keep it going.”
w, “Hall said all that, huh? Total diversion. Hall was the first student around here to get that
scholarship. He went to high school in Cheyenne. That’s where he met Annie.”
w “Did he go to college?”
“Started. Didn’t finish. His dad’s health was failing, the ranch suffering. But the Quicks insisted
er,Hall go to college. His sophomore year, Annie got pregnant. He dropped out and they got married.
After Danny was born, he picked up classes. But … Besides, Hall’s dad was fading fast then. And
er.when he died, the only choices were to sell up the Q-T or for Hall to take over. The market for
ranches was real low and the Q-T was even worse off than it looked, with heavy debts no one had
told Hall about.”
ie “How do you know all this?”
Vicky flashed a grin. “Around here you can’t whisper without it hitting every ridge and echoing
into every low spot. Anyway, Hall’s as stubborn as they come. He tackled the debt and everything
thelse and about four years after he took over the place, he got to the point that he could take a course
heduring the winter as long as he could get through on the highways. He was bound and determined to
get his degree.
“Then Annie got pregnant with the girls. The market for beef took a downturn, and he was back to
x-just keeping even with the debt and no time or money for college courses.”
a She watched Kenzie absorb that.
a “Then he should be all the more supportive of his son getting this scholarship and making good
use of the opportunity,” she said.
ch “In one way I’m real glad to hear you say that. Because both teachers need to sign off on the
scholarship recommendation — yes, I know you didn’t teach him and it’s a stupid rule in our
circumstances, but that’s the rule. You will back me up on this?”
Kenzie hesitated, but then said strongly, “Yes.”
to “Good.” Vicky sighed. “As for Hall, as I said, it’s complicated. Now, tell me everything that
hehappened from the start.”
wn
*
ke
Kenzie looked into the limpid blue eyes of the three-foot tall cowboy waiting in innocent expectation
n’tin front of her. Only a moment before, she’d heard coming from those childish lips words that could
 curl her hair faster than a bout of Washington, D.C., humidity.
f I She scooched down so they were eye to eye.
“Aaron, you know we don’t like words like that here, don’t you?”
ad She’d brought him inside so they could have this conversation out of the earshot of the other
allstudents waiting for their parents to pick them up, since the bus went on the fritz when the driver was
halfway to the schoolhouse to pick up the kids.
ha Aaron Felton blinked, then dropped his gaze to where the toe of his left boot circled a faint red
mark on the wood floor. “I forgot, Miss Kenzie.” All her students were picking up calling her that
t’sfrom Molly and Lizzie Quick. “I forgot I was at school, when that ball got away from me and squirted
away like a da—”
to “Aaron,” she interrupted before his remembered frustration rekindled his vocabulary. “Do you
know what words are?”
hat “Sure. They’re what you say,”
“That’s right, but they’re more than that, too. They’re like bricks you use to build a house. With
words you build a thought. Now, what do you think would happen if you used old, crumbly bricks to
edbuild a house?”
d. Pale brown brows knit in consideration. “It’d fall down?”
nd She nodded. “That sure would be something to worry about, wouldn’t it? To make sure that didn’t
orhappen you’d pick the best bricks you could find and you wouldn’t use any crumbly bricks. It’s the
adsame way with words. If you use bad words, that thought you’re building can come tumbling down.
But if you take the time to find the good words, then you’ll have a nice, strong thought to tell the
world. So, no more bad words, okay?”
ng Concentration tucked his brows and narrowed his eyes. “Because you don’t want my thoughts to
ngfall down?”
se “That’s right.”
to “Okay.” A smile spread across his face, blazing into full radiance at the sound of a pickup horn
tooting outside. “That’s my dad. See ya, Miss Kenzie!”
to He tore away, pint-sized boots hammering on the wood floor. Kenzie’s gaze started to follow him,
but stopped dead when it reached the male form leaning against the doorframe, facing her.
Hall Quick.
od With an easy, well-timed motion, he slid his cocked hip and the boot crossed over his opposite
ankle out of Aaron’s way as the boy barreled past with a hasty, “Hey, Mr. Quick.”
he Kenzie stood quickly. Too quickly. Muscles in her right thigh trembled on the verge of cramp.
urShe’d taught older kids long enough that her muscles weren’t used to holding the first-grade squat.
“Mr. Quick.” She moved to her desk.
“Might as well call me Hall,” he invited as he moved into the classroom. “You know, right about
hatnow, Aaron’s telling his Daddy that all his thoughts are going to fall down like a shack hit by a
wrecking ball.”
“What?” She looked up from papers on her desk to find him right beside her. “Why would…?
Oh.”
“Yep. That’s right. Aaron’s, uh, pungent vocabulary comes straight from his daddy.”
on She groaned. “Great.”
ld Hall Quick chuckled. “It won’t be so bad. Buck Felton doesn’t hold a grudge above a decade or
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hommes, comme les plantes, «ont leurs propriétés particulières et que le
bonheur pour eux est d’avoir été destinés, ou de s’être destinés eux-mêmes,
aux choses pour lesquelles ils étaient nés»... N’y a-t-il pas une grande
science de la vie, dans cette petite phrase?... Vous m’accordez bien qu’il y a
des différences de caractères, de goûts, d’aptitudes, entre les hommes?
Pourquoi ces facultés, ces «propriétés particulières», comme dit Gourville,
nous ont-elles été confiées, si ce n’est pour que nous travaillions, chacun
selon notre pouvoir, en vue de l’intérêt de tous; si ce n’est pour que nous
trouvions, dans la voie pour laquelle nous sommes créés, ce sentiment du
devoir accompli, qui donne une satisfaction profonde, à défaut de
bonheur?... Non, mon cher cousin, il n’y a pas de lâcheté permise; les
inutiles, ce sont les égoïstes ou les paresseux... Donc, personne n’a le droit
de se tuer!... Vous voyez qu’il ne s’agit là, ni d’une religion, ni d’une autre,
mais seulement de l’avenir de la société et de la civilisation, du progrès
matériel que réalise chaque jour celle-ci, du progrès moral que pourrait
réaliser celle-là!... Allons, vous croyez bien au progrès, Bernard? demanda
mademoiselle de Thiaz en riant.
—Je vais vous révolter: qu’appelez-vous «progrès»?... Est-on plus
heureux aujourd’hui qu’il y a quatre mille ans?
La jeune file secoua la tête.
—Vous êtes incorrigible! Je vois que vous ne croyez à rien, Bernard!
—Si, répliqua-t-il, je crois en vous.
—Belle croyance!
Alors il devint sérieux, et, regardant Janik:
—Ne riez pas, dit-il, j’ai trente ans, et vous êtes la première femme à
laquelle j’ai dit cela... C’est une victoire que vous remportez sur l’esprit du
doute!
De telles conversations ne laissaient pas Nohel moins sceptique en
matière philosophique; ses idées s’appuyaient sur des bases trop anciennes
pour être aussi facilement ébranlées par une enfant ignorante.
Cependant, cette petite phrase «Je crois en vous» était bien, en effet, une
conquête de Jeanne.
Dans le Paris élégant où il avait vécu, le romancier s’était trouvé à même
d’étudier le monde des jeunes filles, et, comme il en avait observé
attentivement quelques-unes, il avait cru pouvoir les juger toutes.
Avec une assurance un peu présomptueuse de psychologue, il s’était créé
une opinion sur ces petites personnes, qui d’ailleurs ne l’intéressaient que
médiocrement.
Il y a, pensait-il, deux sortes de jeunes filles: les fausses Agnès, très
nombreuses, et les véritables Agnès, beaucoup plus rares.
Les premières cachent, sous un masque d’innocence paisible ou hardie,
des curiosités malsaines. Elles ont beaucoup lu ce qu’on lit en cachette;
elles ont beaucoup causé avec leurs petites amies, tout bas, dans les coins;
et comme elles ont respiré le fruit défendu, comme elles en aiment le
parfum, il est probable que, devenues femmes, elles voudront en connaître
le goût.
Les secondes, plus sévèrement surveillées, ou moins développées
surtout, sont sincères avec leur mine ingénue... Elles ne lisent que des
romans anglais et des feuilletons de journaux de modes, elles ne récoltent
pas les confidences des petites amies... En un mot, elles ignorent tout du
monde et s’ignorent elles-mêmes... Mais, un jour, brusquement, on les
jettera dans la vie, comme de pauvres soldats désarmés dans la bataille.
Alors, qu’adviendra-t-il?
Un sourire sarcastique était la conclusion de ces réflexions de Jacques
Chépart.
Depuis longtemps, il avait voué aux femmes en général une sorte de
mépris indulgent. Il les avait considérées comme de faibles êtres, mobiles,
inconséquents et mal équilibrés toujours, vertueux ou pervers, innocents ou
coupables selon le tempérament, le jeu des circonstances ou, tout
simplement, l’occasion.
Mais, Janik avait paru.
Elle ne posait pas à la pensionnaire, Janik! elle ne rougissait pas à tout
propos, elle baissait rarement les paupières pour voiler son regard; mais
comme elle était bien jeune fille dans ses paroles, dans sa contenance, dans
sa voix! En rencontrant ses yeux qui rayonnaient d’une pureté sereine et
pour ainsi dire consciente d’elle-même, Bernard se disait,—et c’était
spontané, presque involontaire: «Cette enfant sera une honnête femme!
Bonne, aimante, loyale, elle restera, quoi qu’il arrive, la paix, la joie et
l’honneur de son foyer!»
 ... Oui, la petite mère-grand avait remporté une grande victoire!... Car,
croire en la femme c’est croire en l’amour et en la famille; c’est croire au
bonheur dans le devoir; c’est presque croire en Dieu!
... Et c’étaient encore avec Janik des causeries plus douces, moins
tendues, des lectures... les idées nouvelles, les formules encore
inaccomplies de la pensée moderne, que Bernard expliquait à la jeune fille
tandis qu’elle l’écoutait attentive, les yeux pleins d’une interrogation
confiante... puis des échanges d’impressions et de surprises joyeuses en
s’apercevant que parfois elle et lui sentaient de même... Si bien qu’un
matin, quand M. Le Jariel qui allait partir pour Bordeaux où l’appelait une
affaire, eut conseillé à son malade les longues promenades au grand air qui
achèveraient sa convalescence, Bernard s’étonna que cette convalescence se
fût trouvée si vite en passe d’être achevée...
—Nous irons à la «Fontaine de Marie», s’écria mademoiselle de Thiaz.

VI
Dans les champs, les genêts embaumaient brillant au milieu du feuillage
comme des reflets du soleil... Un berger jouait du biniou sur les bords du
chemin pierreux où croissaient des bruyères, tandis que les petites vaches
fines et nerveuses de son troupeau paissaient autour de lui, calmes, les yeux
ternes, faisant tinter à chaque mouvement de leur tête une clochette dont le
son grêle s’enfuyait au loin porté par la brise de mer.
Près d’une chaumière, à quelques pas de la Fontaine, deux enfants
jouaient «à la procession»... Leurs cheveux blonds, couronnés de
pâquerettes, nimbaient des visages rieurs; ils marchaient d’un pas drôlement
solennel dans le sentier jonché de fleurs effeuillées, l’un pressant de ses
mains dévotement croisées un chapelet de Sainte-Anne, l’autre portant dans
la main droite un long pissenlit bien ouvert, dont la tige toute droite et
coiffée de jaune ardent, simulait un cierge allumé... Bernard et Janik
s’arrêtèrent, tous deux gagnés par l’influence douce de cette nature bretonne
un peu primitive dans sa mélancolie, de cette scène gracieuse un peu mièvre
dans sa poésie inconsciente.
—Le printemps qui passe! s’écria Bernard.
Et, avec une gravité souriante, il se découvrit.
 Les pleurs de madame Marie tombaient goutte à goutte dans une vasque
naturelle enjolivée de plantes aquatiques... Un grand rayon d’un vert doré
tombait des arbres comme d’un vitrail d’église.
—Voici l’eau de Jouvence, Bernard: voulez-vous en éprouver la vertu?
demanda mademoiselle de Thiaz.
Pour toute réponse, Nohel s’agenouilla sur la mousse, et sa main plongea
dans l’eau limpide dont il rafraîchit son front et ses yeux.
Pendant un instant, la fontaine, troublée, ne refléta plus que vaguement
la teinte foncée du feuillage et le bleu clair du ciel. De petites rides,
nombreuses et serrées, brouillaient les contours et trompaient les yeux...
Puis, tout se calma, et, dans le miroir redevenu clair, le jeune homme
aperçut son image.
Une barbe châtaine, très soyeuse, encadrait son visage, qui avait pris, en
s’émaciant, je ne sais quelle grâce attendrie. Ses traits étaient reposés, sa
bouche avait perdu le pli amer des désenchantés; dans ses yeux agrandis,
une lueur brillait... quelque chose comme un reflet de la chaude lumière qui
avait ranimé son cœur.
Le Bernard de la «fontaine» ne ressemblait guère à celui que Jacques
Chépart avait vu à Paris. Cependant, Nohel tressaillit, poigné par un
souvenir.
Alors la tête blonde de la petite mère-grand, qui se penchait au-dessus de
lui, vint se dessiner à côté de la sienne, dans la fontaine apaisée.
—Le charme opère-t-il? dit-elle.
Bernard se leva vivement et saisit les deux mains de la jeune fille.
—Le charme, c’est vous! s’écria-t-il.
Elle avait rougi. Sans brusquerie, mais fermement, elle dégagea ses
mains de celles qui les étreignaient.
—Comme vous voilà bien, Bernard! Toujours un peu fou, dans vos
meilleurs moments, fit-elle. Le charme dont vous parlez, ce sont les contes
bleus de vos premières années, que vous avez retrouvés ici et qui vous ont
rafraîchi l’esprit, comme de belles brises printanières! C’est l’atmosphère
d’affection dans laquelle vous vivez à Nohel... C’est peut-être aussi le
portrait de la tourelle qui vous fait de la morale quand vous n’êtes pas
sage...
 —Oui... mais qui me sourit quand je le suis... Janik, vous avez la bouche
des jours où le petit Bernard était méchant... Pourquoi?
Soudain, elle pâlit un peu.
—Vous vous trompez, dit-elle.
—Est-ce parce que je vous ai dit que vous m’avez fait du bien?
—Non, Bernard.
—Vous m’avez prêché de si gentils sermons, Janik, que maintenant, je
me prends à concevoir la vie, fière, laborieuse, utile, que vous rêvez. Vous
m’avez parlé de bonheur, et, depuis, mon cœur a des élans de joie qu’il ne
connaissait plus... Enfin, vous avez un peu essayé de me convertir, ma petite
providence et... tenez, dimanche, à l’église, quand vous étiez à genoux, le
front courbé, les mains jointes, il m’a semblé que je priais... Ne méprisez
pas votre œuvre!
Il parlait avec des inflexions infiniment douces, dans sa voix un peu
basse. Ses yeux d’acier, qui pouvaient être tour à tour si durs et si tendres,
enveloppaient la jeune fille d’un regard suppliant, dont la grâce câline se
mouillait comme d’une larme, prête à couler; c’était presque un regard
d’enfant et pourtant le regard d’un maître!
Mademoiselle de Thiaz détourna la tête.
—Si, vraiment, je vous ai fait du bien, Dieu est bon, dit-elle.
Elle se baissa pour cueillir parmi les touffes d’herbe humide une petite
fleur qu’elle glissa dans sa ceinture, puis elle reprit d’un ton tout autre:
—Comme le vent est frais sous bois! Ce n’est pas le moment de faire des
imprudences, puisque le docteur est absent... Voulez-vous que nous
descendions jusqu’à la plage? là nous ne serons plus qu’à un quart d’heure
du château.
Au bord de la mer ils échangèrent quelques paroles avec la fille de Jean-
Marc, qui raccommodait les mailles d’un filet en surveillant son enfant;
puis ils se reposèrent un instant sur les rochers garnis d’algues qui
émergeaient du sable.
La fillette du pêcheur construisait un bastion avec des galets.
Maigre, hâlée, pauvrement vêtue, mignonne pourtant avec ses yeux de
gazelle et ses cheveux embroussaillés, elle ramassait des coquillages ou
attrapait délicatement les crabes qui clopinaient autour des flaques, puis,
insouciante de qui l’entendrait, elle chantait en patois breton, s’interrompant
pour babiller aux mouettes.
Janik suivait ces jeux d’un sourire indulgent.
—Vous aimez beaucoup les enfants, dit Bernard.
—Oh! oui, répondit-elle, mettant toute son âme tendre dans ce mot.
Ses bras se fermèrent sur sa poitrine comme pour encercler une chère
couvée, et ses yeux se perdirent sur l’horizon bleuâtre où la mer se
confondait avec le ciel.
La marée montait. Chaque instant rapprochait un peu la ligne hérissée
d’écume des vagues qui sautillaient, en se pressant, pour atteindre la plage.
—Je suis sûr que vous êtes le bon ange de tous les mioches de la côte...
ils doivent vous adorer! reprit Bernard.
—Ils m’aiment bien, oui!... Pauvres petits!
—Est-ce que vous les grondez, quelquefois, eux aussi?
Le flot avançait toujours; la mer se couvrait de voiles blanches
qu’escortaient, haut dans le ciel pâle, de grands vols de mouettes et de
goélands. Un vent perfide commençait à souffler et gémissait dans les
excavations de la côte. Déjà les vagues mouraient aux pieds mêmes de
Janik, qui les regardait accourir promptes et rageuses, bouillonner en
nappes d’écume et se replier majestueusement. Elle aimait ce spectacle
jamais lassant, du flux et du reflux; elle aimait la voix rude qui la berçait
depuis des années.
Et, tandis que Janik contemplait l’étendue glauque, Bernard contemplait
Janik. Il admirait son fin profil, sa taille frêle et un peu longue, ses mains
croisées sur ses genoux dans une pose familière, ses petits pieds qui se
cambraient hors de sa robe, comme pour défier le flot.
Mais, tout à coup, un appel déchirant domina le bruit de la mer et Nohel
se leva, brusquement arraché à sa rêverie.
La fillette aux pieds nus ne jouait plus autour de la forteresse submergée;
debout sur la plage, la femme du pêcheur se tordait les mains.
Elle vit le mouvement de Bernard, elle s’élança vers lui.
—Ma petite, ma petite!... dit-elle.
Et elle pleurait, ne pouvant achever.
 Le jeune homme comprenait le drame. L’enfant avait voulu se rire de la
mer, elle avait fait un faux pas sans doute, et la grande impitoyable,
l’enroulant du manteau glacé de ses lames, l’avait entraînée en se retirant.
D’un geste rapide, il jeta à terre son chapeau et sa veste... Mademoiselle
de Thiaz eut un cri d’angoisse:
—Bernard, vous êtes encore malade, vous ne pouvez pas...
Mais, ce ne fut qu’un éclair de révolte; elle fit un grand effort et ses
beaux yeux brillèrent:
—Allez! dit-elle...
. . . . . . . . . .
—Merci, oh! merci, monsieur!
La petite fille de Jean-Marc serre dans ses bras crispés son enfant
sauvée, le cher trésor que Nohel a disputé au flot. Ah! la mer a bien cru
tenir sa proie! La pauvre petite épave soulevée, ballottée en tous sens, a
échappé plus d’une fois aux mains qui voulaient la saisir. Aussi la lutte a été
rude. Le froid de l’eau suffoquait Bernard; très faible encore, étourdi par le
mugissement des vagues, aveuglé par la mousse qui lui jaillissait au visage,
il s’est senti défaillir plus d’une fois durant ce court sauvetage! Mais, grâce
à Dieu, l’enfant inerte et toute ruisselante que la pauvre femme emporte, est
bien vivante!... Les pêcheurs, accourus sur la plage, veulent serrer dans
leurs mains calleuses la main fine du jeune homme. «Ces Parisiens, c’est
courageux tout de même!»
Et le père de la petite est là, livide et parlant à peine.
—Oh! merci, merci, monsieur!
Cependant, au milieu de cet enthousiasme, Bernard n’avait qu’une
pensée: Janik.
Pâle, très pâle, elle lui tendit les mains.
—Bernard... murmura-t-elle.
Et elle n’en dit pas plus; mais ses yeux éclairaient son front blême, ses
yeux souriaient, bleus et transparents comme des saphirs. Elle était
contente, la petite mère-grand!
Quand Bernard sortit de la cabane où il avait revêtu les habits qu’on était
allé chercher au château et que le vieux Jean-Marc lui avait apportés en
pleurant de reconnaissance, mademoiselle de Thiaz l’entraîna vers la rampe
qui escaladait la falaise.
 —Rentrons vite, dit-elle.
Mais, au bout de quelques pas, elle s’arrêta pour reprendre haleine.
—Oh! Bernard! s’écria-t-elle, un peu remise. Que c’est beau ce que vous
avez fait! Affaibli comme vous l’êtes, vous risquiez deux fois votre vie!
Puis, enveloppant son cousin d’un regard inquiet:
—Vous ne vous sentez pas malade? Dites-moi la vérité?
—Malade! ah! bien au contraire... Bon Jean-Marc! comme il m’a
embrassé!... Et cette pauvre femme, comme elle sanglotait!... Ah! tenez,
cela fait du bien de penser qu’au moins une fois on a été un peu utile!
—Un peu! répéta Janik avec reproche... Vous n’avez pas froid?
—Aucunement... Comme vous êtes bonne pour moi!
—Parce que je vous demande de vos nouvelles, quelle idée!... ah! j’ai eu
si peur!
—Vous avez eu peur, très peur, oui, mais... je ne sais pas vous dire ce
que j’ai éprouvé en vous voyant... Toutes les femmes à votre place auraient
pleuré et supplié, vous, vous êtes restée calme, et si simple, si grande! Vous
étiez pâle, vos mains tremblaient; pourtant, vous m’avez dit: «Allez!...»
Janik, vous ne serez pas seulement une bonne mère, vous serez aussi une
vraie Française, une vaillante, vous saurez garder les yeux secs à la veille
d’une bataille et dire à vos fils: Faites votre devoir!
Mademoiselle de Thiaz se taisait; Nohel reprit:
—Je ne vous ai pas raconté une chose touchante... Comme je quittais sa
maison, le père de la petite fille m’a donné un chapelet de Sainte-Anne:
«Prenez-le, monsieur, m’a-t-il dit, c’est tout ce que je possède, mais quand
vous aurez des enfants, ça leur portera bonheur!»
—Pauvre brave homme! fit mademoiselle de Thiaz, un peu moqueuse. Il
ignore vos théories d’esprit fort! Un chapelet à vous!
—Un chapelet à moi, oui, Janik! Et je le garderai toujours, ce chapelet.
—Pour vos enfants?
Bernard regarda la jeune fille, puis, grave, il répondit:
—Oui, Janik, pour mes enfants.
Le soir, après dîner, Nohel se sentait très calme et très heureux, en
prenant sa place habituelle dans le salon jonquille où mademoiselle de
Kérigan se faisait raconter pour la dixième fois au moins les prouesses de
son petit cousin.
—Vous êtes un héros, Bernard, s’écria-t-elle.
Et mademoiselle Louise répéta comme un écho:
—Oui, un héros, monsieur de Nohel, un héros!
Seulement, mademoiselle Armelle regrettait que la fille du pêcheur, au
lieu de six ans, n’en eût pas eu seize; elle se serait immanquablement éprise
de son sauveur qui, bravant les sots préjugés du monde, l’aurait épousée à
Pâques fleuries! Quelle délicieuse idylle!
La vieille demoiselle était en veine de bâtir des romans, elle avait passé
sa journée à lire la dernière œuvre d’un auteur en vogue, une de ces œuvres
entraînantes qu’on ne sait guère quitter avant d’avoir atteint la page finale.
Le chapitre du sauvetage de la petite fille épuisé, elle éprouva le besoin
de faire partager ses admirations à Bernard, avec lequel elle causait souvent
littérature, au grand amusement du jeune homme.
—Juliane! voilà le titre de ce chef-d’œuvre, pontifia-t-elle. L’auteur est
un romancier parisien, que vous connaissez sans doute: Jacques Chépart?
Mademoiselle de Kérigan parlait très innocemment. Entre le nom du
livre et celui de l’auteur, Nohel avait eu le temps de se remettre.
Il tenait à conserver le secret de sa personnalité littéraire, inconnue au
château. Jusqu’à son retour à Paris, il voulait être uniquement le neveu de
tante Armelle et le cousin de Janik, le petit-fils soumis de la mère-grand aux
yeux bleus! Jacques Chépart, le romancier las de vivre, l’être compliqué,
d’essence moderne, était resté dans la grande ville; il ignorait le château de
Nohel, la fontaine de Marie et les réminiscences dont on rit le regard ému.
L’homme auquel souriait le portrait de la tourelle avait un cœur très
simple; il aimait les contes bleus, il passait des heures à causer avec une
jeune fille et un vieux philosophe... il était presque heureux! Et ce fut lui qui
répondit à tante Armelle:
—Si je connais Jacques Chépart, ma tante? oh! très peu.
—Quel génie! s’écria l’enragée liseuse avec conviction... Ce doit être un
affreux mauvais sujet... Moi, je l’adore, ce garçon-là!
Le jeune homme se mit à rire.
—Un génie! Comme vous y allez! Et un génie mauvais sujet!... Et un
mauvais sujet que vous adorez!... Vous adorez les mauvais sujets, tante
Armelle?
—Comme toutes les femmes, mon neveu... Seulement, à soixante ans on
ose le dire, tandis qu’à vingt, on se contente de le penser... Ah! vous
connaissez Jacques Chépart? Il est jeune, n’est-ce pas?
—Trente ans, je crois.
—J’en étais sûre... Il fait des passions, hein?
—Il ne m’a jamais honoré de ses confidences.
—Tant pis, mon cher Bernard... Ah! c’est mon romancier de
prédilection!... Mais je ne le permets pas à Janik... c’est tout au plus si elle a
lu un ouvrage et quelques vers de lui... Ces livres-là sont perfides comme le
péché!
Janik cousait sous la lampe. Silencieuse, elle souriait d’un sourire doux,
presque indulgent, aux enthousiasmes de sa tante.
—Si tu t’en allais un instant prendre le frais sur la terrasse, ma
mignonne, mademoiselle Louise pourrait me lire le dernier chapitre de
Juliane, fit soudain la vieille demoiselle. Je suis si anxieuse du dénoûment!
Vous permettez, Bernard?
—Oh! tante Armelle!...
Docilement, mademoiselle de Thiaz gagna la terrasse et Bernard l’y
suivit.
Le vent s’apaisait. La nuit était très bleue, criblée d’étoiles. La jeune fille
s’accouda, rêveusement, à la balustrade enguirlandée de vigne-vierge.
Tout se taisait autour d’eux, sauf la voix basse de la mer. Bernard
demanda:
—Que pensez-vous de Jacques Chépart, Janik?
Alors, elle tressaillit, arrachée à elle-même.
—Jacques Chépart? répéta-t-elle. Oh! je l’ai lu si peu!
—Vous avez lu l’un de ses romans et quelques vers de lui, c’en est
presque assez pour le juger... Quelle a été votre impression?
—Mon impression! Elle vous surprendra peut-être, Bernard... En lisant
Jacques Chépart, j’ai ressenti un malaise étrange de l’esprit et de la
conscience... J’étais mécontente des autres et de moi.
—Voilà tout?
 —Non, car je jouissais infiniment de cette prose charmeuse. Quel
dommage, pourtant: avoir un si grand talent et l’employer si mal!... Il peint
les hommes sous de tristes couleurs, votre ami!
—Oh! il n’est pas mon ami! objecta Nohel, qui ne croyait pas si bien
dire. Mais je pense, ma pauvre enfant, qu’il peint les hommes tels qu’il les a
vus.
—Tant pis pour le monde où il a vécu!... Allons, Bernard, vous ne me
direz pas qu’il n’y a sur la terre rien de bon, de noble et de vrai?
—Non, Janik... je vous accorde qu’il y a de rares exceptions.
—Alors, pourquoi les laisse-t-on de côté, ces rares exceptions?...
Pourquoi n’est-ce pas elles qu’on met au jour, comme de grands exemples...
Si l’on vous confiait un enfant à élever, Bernard, vous lui reprocheriez ses
fautes, mais vous constateriez aussi ses bonnes actions, n’est-il pas vrai?
Lui répéteriez-vous sans cesse qu’il est menteur et méchant par nature, et
que ses efforts et les vôtres seront impuissants à le corriger? Non, cent fois
non; car vous vous rappelleriez une vérité que les romanciers modernes
oublient; vous vous diriez que, pour marcher au bien, il vaut mieux être
réconcilié avec soi-même, que sévère et découragé... Eh bien, où serait le
mal si dans les livres on les embellissait un peu, ces pauvres hommes; si on
essayait de les relever à leurs propres yeux, en leur montrant ce qu’ils
pourraient être... et non ce qu’ils sont? Mais bah! au lieu de cela, on leur
prouve, à grands renforts d’arguments scientifiques, qu’ils sont pervers et
corrompus; bien plus, on leur présente le mal comme une plaie
inguérissable, on les traite d’êtres irresponsables, on fait d’eux les esclaves
de leurs passions! quand ce n’est pas de leurs hérédités!
—Ma chère Janik, c’est très raisonnable ce que vous dites, mais les
romanciers ne se piquent pas d’être des éducateurs. Puis, il est rare,
l’homme qui écrit ce qu’il veut, comme il le veut! La plupart du temps, ce
sont des impressions personnelles qu’on jette sur le papier... Et, quand on se
sent triste, abattu, quand on ne croit plus à grand’chose, on ne peut
qu’exhaler sa désillusion.
—Alors, Bernard, qu’on n’écrive pas... Un mauvais livre, c’est une
mauvaise action... Tandis qu’un bon livre, un livre loyal, sincère, ah! c’est si
beau!... C’est peut-être une présomption bien naïve, Bernard, mais au récit
d’un trait généreux, d’un grand dévouement, on s’enflamme, en se disant:
«Pourquoi ne ferais-je pas ce qu’un autre a fait?» Et la cause du bien n’y
perd pas!... Quand vous étiez écolier et que vous lisiez Corneille, ne sortiez-
vous pas de votre lecture plus fort et comme grandi? Le génie du poète vous
avait porté si haut que vous planiez au-dessus des mesquineries de la réalité
quotidienne; votre cœur s’élargissait pour embrasser tout un monde de
devoirs héroïques; vous étiez fier d’être «un homme», et tout votre cœur
s’élançait vers je ne sais quel idéal superbe... que vous auriez peut-être
atteint, si un tel charme pouvait durer!
—O rêveuse enthousiaste! fit Nohel en souriant.
Et il admirait Janik, délicieuse avec ses yeux ardents, son visage mobile,
qui parlaient autant que sa voix. Il buvait les paroles qu’elle prononçait en
s’animant toujours; peu à peu, il se laissait aller à penser comme elle, à
vouloir ce qu’elle voulait. Soudain il dit:
—Oui, vous avez raison, Janik! Certains livres sont de mauvaises
actions. Vous avez raison. Consoler, réconforter, donner confiance en la vie,
en l’humanité, ce serait meilleur, ce serait plus louable que de verser goutte
à goutte le poison des désillusions et des amertumes! De quel droit Jacques
Chépart fait-il porter aux autres le poids de ses propres fautes? De quel droit
leur fait-il goûter le fruit de sa triste expérience?... Pauvre Jacques Chépart!
Vous ne le connaissez pas... et on dirait que vous le haïssez!
Nohel avait prononcé ces mots tristement; mademoiselle de Thiaz le
regarda, étonnée, puis, s’étant un instant recueillie:
—Non, Bernard, dit-elle, je ne le hais point... il me fait de la peine et
m’attache, sans que je puisse définir par quel charme... Je pense que son
enfance a été malheureuse, que peut-être il n’a pas connu sa mère,
qu’aucune sœur bien tendre n’a partagé ses jeux!... S’il a été privé des
affections de la famille, doit-on lui reprocher d’en ignorer le prix?... Plus
tard, on l’aura mal aimé; il aura vécu sous le joug d’influences pernicieuses,
contre lesquelles nulle main chère ne le défendait... Il faut quelquefois si
peu de chose pour éloigner une pensée mauvaise... Un regard, une pression
de main... moins encore, une voix, un parfum, qui évoque un souvenir... On
m’a raconté l’histoire d’un jeune homme de Plourné qui, se trouvant à
Monte-Carlo, fut pris du désir fou de jouer, de jouer de l’argent qui n’était
pas à lui... Déjà, il ouvrait son portefeuille... une petite fleur en tomba,
c’était une bruyère du pays que lui avait donnée sa fiancée... Les larmes lui
montèrent aux yeux... et il s’enfuit. Peut-être qu’aucune espérance,
qu’aucun souvenir ne gardait Jacques Chépart.
 Bernard écoutait toujours, attentif; soudain, il redressa la tête, et, la voix
émue:
—Je voudrais, murmura-t-il, que Jacques Chépart pût vous entendre.
Plus tard, quand je le reverrai, je lui dirai ce que vous m’avez dit... Vous
avez raison de le plaindre... ce n’est pas un méchant homme, non, c’est un
homme à qui l’on n’a pas su enseigner la vie; c’est, comme vous le disiez,
un homme qu’on a mal aimé et qui n’a jamais aimé personne, un homme
qui a vécu dans un monde néfaste et qui, se jugeant sévèrement lui-même,
s’est cru le droit de juger les autres, impitoyablement. Il a souffert
beaucoup, non pas de ces douleurs grandes et saines qui trempent, mais
d’un mal lent, écœurant, qui le conduisait à l’abîme, en lui laissant le
sentiment de sa déchéance... Oui, il a souffert, je vous assure, il a souffert,
riche, envié, autant peut-être qu’un misérable abandonné... Il était si seul
dans la foule! Rien ne l’attachait à la terre!... Si vous saviez, un jour, il a
voulu se tuer!...
Il y eut un long silence, puis Nohel dit très bas:
—Janik, voulez-vous me donner cette fleur que vous avez cueillie à la
«Fontaine de Marie?»... Je la porterai à Jacques Chépart, et je lui dirai
qu’elle s’est fanée sur le cœur loyal et pur d’une jeune fille qui le
plaignait...
Mademoiselle de Thiaz avait écouté, palpitante: ses yeux s’ouvraient très
grands, comme remplis d’une lumière nouvelle. On eût cru qu’un cri allait
s’élancer de ses lèvres... mais, soudain, sa main qui déjà cherchait la fleur
pour la tendre à Bernard, retomba:
—C’est une idée de rêveur, et je ne connais pas Jacques Chépart! dit-elle
doucement.
Elle quitta la terrasse, mais Nohel y resta longtemps après elle, plongeant
ses regards dans les lointains mystérieux du parc. A dix heures, quand on se
sépara, il regagna la tourelle.
Il chancelait, la tête perdue... une ivresse lui gonflait le cœur. Il
contempla ardemment le portrait qui ressemblait à Janik. Ah! comme elle
était adorable, comme il l’adorait!
Oui, il aimait! Lui, Jacques Chépart, il aimait comme on aime à vingt
ans, d’un amour spontané, irrésistible, qui défiait l’analyse; d’un amour qui
riait et pleurait à la fois dans tout son être, et qu’il eût voulu crier au monde
entier! Il aimait, pour la première fois et, pour la première fois, il espérait, il
était heureux, il était jeune!
Il ouvrit la fenêtre toute grande, et respira avidement l’air chargé de
parfums, croyant entendre des voix joyeuses chanter, pour lui seul, dans la
nuit tiède!
Et il avait songé à se tuer, l’insensé! Se tuer, quand on peut donner sa
vie, être deux et n’être plus qu’un, exister, penser, souffrir ensemble et
toujours, toujours ainsi!
Bernard ne se demandait pas s’il était aimé: la soudaine révélation de
son amour lui avait semblé si douce qu’elle avait effacé pour lui toute
préoccupation de l’avenir. Dans la minute de délice, où il s’était dit:
«J’aime!» il avait oublié qu’un désespoir naît souvent de cette joie d’aimer
que Gœthe a si bien définie: «La félicité suprême du sentiment.»
Bernard ne pouvait dormir. Il s’assit à sa table et travailla. Depuis
quelques jours, il avait entrepris une histoire simple, écrite en prose... une
prose qui n’était pas de la prose poétique, et qui était pourtant la prose d’un
poète. C’était un roman très court, dont les mots vivaient, où le rire et les
larmes étaient sincères, où l’on humait le parfum frais des bois et l’air salé
des plages, où l’on entendait chanter la brise et les grandes vagues!
Toute la nuit, Jacques Chépart se sentit porté par sa plume.
Il trouvait des harmonies ravissantes pour écrire la langue tendre; car
c’était à Janik qu’il pensait; c’était pour elle qu’il se faisait soudain si doux;
c’était pour elle qu’il s’accoutumait à tracer, avec des respects infinis, ce
mot «amour» qui, jadis, grimaçait sous sa main.
Au matin seulement, il relut son œuvre achevée; puis il la cacheta sous
bande, à l’adresse d’un grand journal de Paris.
Bientôt Janik lirait ces pages écrites sous le regard bienveillant de la
petite mère-grand; elle se dirait peut-être que, par une intuition mystérieuse,
Jacques Chépart avait deviné ses paroles, qu’il en avait profité.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mais Janik, elle non plus, n’avait pas dormi... Quand elle était entrée
dans sa chambre, toute vibrante, le visage fiévreux, avec une lueur nouvelle
au fond de ses prunelles extasiées, elle avait aperçu une lettre cachetée,
qu’on avait dressée, bien en évidence, sur le bureau contre l’encrier, et,
devant l’adresse d’une bâtarde correctement soulignée de grands traits, elle
avait blêmi.
Ses mains, soudainement saisies d’une agitation convulsive, ouvrirent
maladroitement l’enveloppe et en arrachèrent le papier... puis elle lut. Alors
un sanglot souleva sa poitrine et elle tomba à genoux.
—Oh! mon Dieu, murmura-t-elle, pourquoi ne m’avez-vous pas éclairée
plus tôt sur lui, sur moi-même?... Que va-t-il penser de moi!

VII
Dès neuf heures, Nohel se rendit au village pour expédier son envoi; puis
il revint lentement, à travers la campagne...
Recommencer la vie pour Janik et avec Janik! Il se demandait si ce
n’était pas un bonheur impossible. Et pourtant... Pourtant, cette dernière
journée pleine d’émotions, la timidité subite de mademoiselle de Thiaz à la
Fontaine de Marie, son angoisse sur la plage à l’heure du danger: tout
laissait croire à Nohel qu’une révélation s’était faite dans le cœur de la
jeune fille. Le même moment lui avait dit qu’elle aimait Bernard et que
Bernard l’aimait! Et elle consentirait, la chère créature, à être le délice de
celui qu’elle avait rattaché à la vie, elle consentirait à rester le bon ange de
Jacques Chépart.
... Alors, il l’emporterait dans son vieux Paris. De l’appartement jadis
trop grand et trop vide, il ferait l’écrin de cette beauté fine, un nid embaumé
de roses et de violettes, où les étoffes, les couleurs, la lumière, seraient
douces et veloutées, où, mieux qu’ailleurs, on s’aimerait, on pourrait causer,
l’un près de l’autre, la voix basse...
Là Jacques Chépart imaginerait de beaux livres.
C’est dans les yeux de «sa femme» qu’il chercherait le mot hésitant sous
sa plume, et, quand Janik se pencherait, curieuse, pour lire par-dessus son
épaule la page ébauchée, il sentirait sur sa joue la caresse de ses cheveux
blonds...
Souvent, bien souvent, il lui parlerait de ses travaux, et elle répondrait de
sa petite voix claire. Ainsi, il ferait d’elle la secrète collaboratrice de tout ce
qu’il écrirait; plus tard, en lisant l’œuvre parue, elle dirait: «C’est ensemble
que nous avons pensé cela!» Et tous deux aimeraient ces livres: Bernard,
parce qu’il y retrouverait Janik; Janik, parce qu’elle y retrouverait Bernard.
Pour eux seuls, un poème chanterait entre les lignes; chaque mot évoquerait
un souvenir qu’on se raconterait en souriant, les mains unies...
Bernard rêvait ainsi, et il se raillait lui-même, très doucement, en baisant
une fleur, qu’il avait cueillie sur la terrasse, pendant que Jeanne parlait.
Comme il traversait le jardin baigné d’un soleil clair et tout perlé encore
de la rosée de la nuit, Jean-Marc, qui émondait les rosiers d’un grand
massif, l’arrêta au passage.
—Ah! monsieur Bernard, s’écria-t-il, il faut pourtant que je vous
remercie encore; quand on pense que sans vous la petite serait... enfin que
nous pleurerions tous, quoi!... Ah! c’en aurait été fini de la joie... Il faut
quelquefois si peu de chose et si peu de temps pour que le bonheur s’en
aille...
Bernard serra la main du vieillard.
—J’ai fait ce que n’importe qui aurait fait à ma place, mon brave Jean-
Marc; si tu m’en aimes un peu plus, tant mieux, mais n’en parlons pas
davantage... Est-ce que mademoiselle de Thiaz a déjà arrosé ses fleurs?
—Mademoiselle Janik, oh! elle est matineuse... il y a longtemps que ses
plantes ont à boire... elle arrange des fleurs dans le salon... même qu’elle
n’avait pas trop bonne mine, ajouta le bonhomme d’un ton mécontent.
Bernard tressaillit.
—Est-ce qu’elle avait l’air malade?
—Pas malade, non... mais les jeunes filles c’est si délicat, si fragile, est-
ce qu’on sait jamais?... ah! elle est mignonne celle-là!
Nohel était resté pensif, il s’éloigna sans répondre, se redisant
machinalement une phrase du jardinier: «Il faut quelquefois si peu de chose
et si peu de temps pour que le bonheur s’en aille...»
Jean-Marc le suivit un instant du regard.
—Pour sûr que ce serait un gentil mari pour mademoiselle Janik, fit-il
entre ses dents; seulement, voilà, je crois bien que la patronne a dans l’idée
monsieur Pierre...
Mademoiselle de Thiaz faisait des bouquets dans le salon jonquille.
Légèrement penchée, elle mêlait, sur les bords d’un vase plein d’eau, des
fleurs de genêt et des branches d’acacia rose. Au bruit de la porte, elle se
retourna; alors Nohel faillit jeter un cri.
 Non, ce n’était plus Janik, ce n’était plus la rieuse petite mère-grand!
Des yeux cerclés de bistre, des yeux qui avaient pleuré et qui n’avaient pas
dormi, donnaient maintenant à ce jeune visage une expression navrée... La
bouche, contractée, tremblait un peu.
—Qu’y a-t-il? dites-moi vite... vous avez pleuré?
Bernard avait pris les deux mains de Janik, elle se dégagea doucement.
—Ce n’est rien, ce n’est rien, dit-elle.
—Rien! mais je vois que vous avez pleuré, mais je sens que vous avez
du chagrin...
—Du chagrin, oh! ne croyez pas cela, Bernard... J’ai reçu, hier soir, une
lettre qui m’a un peu émue et j’ai passé une mauvaise nuit; voilà tout...
Il l’interrogeait encore des yeux. Gênée par ce regard incrédule, elle
quitta la table, où les fleurs coupées gisaient, entre-croisant leurs tiges, et
elle s’approcha de la fenêtre. Elle s’assit, la tête baissée, puis, après un
instant, elle dit très bas, et péniblement, comme si les mots s’arrêtaient dans
sa gorge:
—Il y a quelque chose que vous ne savez pas, Bernard... Déjà, j’aurais
dû vous le dire, puisque vous êtes de la famille. Depuis quatre ans, je suis
fiancée au neveu du docteur Le Jariel.
Nohel crut que le sol croulait sous lui.
—Vous êtes fiancée, vous!
Il sentait qu’il devenait blême et que ses traits se tiraient comme ceux
d’un mourant. Mais, dans la douleur qui le poignait, il y avait aussi de la
colère, une colère sourde, implacable.
Janik fiancée! Et rien dans ses paroles ou son attitude ne l’avait laissé
pressentir à Bernard. Janik fiancée! Et il l’avait aimée, sans soupçon, sans
remords... Ah! Dieu! l’avait-il aimée!... Il le comprenait à cette heure... Et
voilà que de tous les rêves du matin, il ne restait plus qu’une inguérissable
amertume. Le vieux Jean-Marc avait raison: il faut bien peu de temps pour
que le bonheur s’en aille!...
Cette ingénue, c’était donc une coquette? C’était donc une femme
comme les autres femmes, cette créature idéale dont les yeux semblaient
n’avoir jamais menti?
Affolé par son désespoir, Nohel oubliait le caractère fraternel de
l’affection que lui avait toujours témoignée Janik. Avait-il jamais lui-même
prononcé une parole qui pût autoriser la jeune fille à se croire aimée
d’amour?
Janik, coquette, parce qu’elle avait entouré de soins un convalescent
dont elle avait eu pitié, parce qu’elle avait essayé de redresser un esprit
faussé, de consoler un cœur chagrin; parce qu’elle avait parlé du devoir
humain et de la volonté divine, à celui qui n’y croyait plus? Une coquette
bien étrange, alors, et presque invraisemblable, à force de perfidie.
Mais Bernard ne raisonnait pas; il souffrait; après avoir entrevu le ciel il
venait d’être rejeté violemment sur la terre; après avoir rêvé le bonheur, le
bonheur à deux, il se retrouvait seul dans la vie, ayant au cœur une blessure
que la main aimée ne panserait pas. Il ne raisonnait pas et il éprouvait, dans
sa grande douleur, un désir méchant et bien humain de torturer celle qui le
torturait ainsi. Par un suprême effort de volonté, il contint son chagrin; sa
voix, prête aux sanglots, s’acéra, mordante.
—Vous êtes fiancée? répéta-t-il. Toutes mes félicitations, ma cousine;
voilà une grande nouvelle dont je ne me doutais guère! Comment l’homme
que vous aimez peut-il vivre loin de vous?
Janik parut surprise de ce ton railleur, mais elle répondit avec une
douceur calme:
—Pierre Le Jariel est marin... Il y a trois ans qu’il est absent pour son
service. Hier j’ai reçu une lettre datée du Caire; dans quelques jours il sera
ici...
—Mon Dieu! quel bonheur pour vous, ma chère enfant!... Les
séparations sont si dures, quand on s’aime!
La voix de Nohel était âpre, ses paroles sonnaient mal. Janik se tut, mais
ses yeux se levèrent pleins de reproches. Alors le jeune homme reprit, plus
gravement et très bas:
—Pourquoi ne m’aviez-vous rien dit?
—Je ne sais pas... murmura-t-elle. Ah! ne croyez pas que j’aie manqué
de confiance en vous...
—Il y a... il y a longtemps que vous êtes fiancée?
—Presque quatre ans... nous nous sommes connus tout jeunes, lui et
moi... Nous nous voyions souvent... Ses parents habitaient Vannes où ma
tante avait conservé des relations: puis le docteur s’était installé à Plourné,
et Pierre passait les vacances chez son oncle... Nous nous aimions bien,
comme des amis, comme des frères; nous causions, nous nous promenions
ensemble; tante Armelle et monsieur Le Jariel se souriaient en nous voyant
et nous appelaient Paul et Virginie... Un jour—j’avais seize ans—on m’a
demandé si je consentirais à être la femme de Pierre, et j’ai dit oui... Il me
semblait jouer encore au petit mari et à la petite femme. Le docteur, lui,
hochait la tête, il trouvait que c’était une folie de lier ainsi deux enfants... Il
avait raison peut-être! Mais, à cette époque, je pensais qu’il se trompait et
que nous serions très heureux, Pierre et moi.
Les doigts de Bernard se crispèrent sur la paume de sa main.
—Vous l’aimiez, vous l’aimiez?
Mademoiselle de Thiaz eut un sourire triste.
—A vrai dire, je n’en sais rien... J’aimais en lui toute sa famille, si
bonne, si heureuse, j’aimais les traditions de loyauté, de travail, de sainteté
patriarcale, dans lesquelles il avait été élevé. Je me disais que ce serait beau
d’être la joie de cette chère maison où la bienvenue me riait partout... puis
monsieur et madame Le Jariel sont morts à un mois d’intervalle, leur fille
est entrée en religion, et Pierre est parti...
—Il a pu vous quitter! Son amour n’était donc pas digne de vous?
—Il m’a quittée pour faire son devoir, ce qui était digne de lui, et digne
aussi de moi, Bernard!... Il m’a quittée, ayant foi en ma parole, comme j’ai
confiance en la sienne. C’est le plus brave, le plus honnête, le meilleur des
hommes...
—Mais vous ne l’aimez pas, mais vous avez compris que cette affection
de jadis n’était qu’une affection fraternelle, et, pour que vous ayez compris
cela, il faut...
—Non, Bernard!
Janik avait ébauché un geste brusque, comme pour lui fermer la bouche;
il continua en s’animant:
—Non? pourquoi dites-vous non, avant que j’aie parlé... Vous avez donc
deviné ce que j’allais dire?... Oui, vous l’avez deviné... Si vous comprenez
maintenant que vous n’aimiez pas Pierre Le Jariel, c’est que vous en aimez
un autre, c’est... Ah! Janik, Janik, ne dites plus non...
Nohel cherchait désespérément le regard de la jeune fille. Elle se leva,
affreusement pâle.
 —Vous vous méprenez, Bernard, dit-elle en étouffant un peu. Je n’ai
jamais aimé, je n’aime personne de l’amour auquel vous faites allusion...
Quand j’ai été séparée de Pierre, j’étais une enfant; depuis, j’ai grandi, j’ai
réfléchi, et j’ai mieux vu en moi, voilà tout!... J’ai eu tort de m’engager si
vite, sans saisir la portée de l’engagement que je contractais, et peut-être en
cela ne suis-je pas seule fautive: on m’a beaucoup influencée!... J’ai eu tort
ensuite d’envisager cet avenir prévu comme une chose trop lointaine... Je
n’ai pas assez pensé à mon fiancé. Son retour, notre mariage, ne
m’apparaissaient que dans un brouillard vague... Tellement vague que... oh!
c’est étrange!... mais c’est hier que j’ai eu pour la première fois l’idée de
vous en parler. Une sotte timidité m’a arrêtée, et j’étais décidée à prier ma
tante de vous annoncer mes fiançailles, que vous deviez connaître, si peu
officielles qu’elles fussent, lorsque cette lettre est arrivée... On l’avait posée
dans ma chambre où je l’ai trouvée le soir. J’ai été étonnée, saisie... C’était
bien naturel, n’est-ce pas? Comme j’étais un peu énervée, contre mon
habitude, j’ai pleuré sans savoir pourquoi... Mais je serai fière d’être la
femme de Pierre Le Jariel et... et j’aimerai mon mari.
—Et si vous ne pouvez pas l’aimer?
D’un mouvement inconscient, Bernard avait joint les mains; il reprit, la
voix suppliante:
—Réfléchissez. Tant que cet odieux mariage n’est pas accompli, vous
êtes libre... réfléchissez!
—Nous sommes de la même famille, Bernard, on a dû vous apprendre,
comme à moi, qu’une parole donnée est un engagement... Je ne suis plus
libre.
A ces mots, Bernard changea de visage; un rire cassant lui échappa.
—On ne m’a rien appris à moi, ma chère... J’ai toujours conduit ma
barque au gré de mes désirs... C’est pourquoi j’ignore totalement la mesure
et la pondération qui font les vies calmes et sages... Mais, si j’ai souvent
meurtri ceux qui m’aimaient, du moins, je n’ai jamais trompé personne.
—J’ai donc trompé quelqu’un, moi?
C’était dit fièrement, comme un défi.
—Vous m’avez caché que vous êtes fiancée... c’était agir sans franchise.
N’avez-vous donc jamais pensé... enfin, c’eût été possible... Nous sommes
jeunes tous deux, vous n’ignorez pas que vous êtes jolie... je vous croyais
libre... N’avez-vous jamais pensé que... je pourrais vous aimer, moi?