by Gina Welborn
Emilia.
He shouldn’t be thinking of her by her given name. She needed to stay Mrs. Collins. His heart needed her to. Because she was Finn’s widow. Because she had made friends with Jakob and Isaak Gunderson, who would champion her. Because, no matter how much Mac hated the thought, she was doing fine without him . . . and he wanted her to need him.
There. He’d admitted it. Now he could get back to being rational.
Pattering footsteps drew near. Face flushed and broom in hand, she sailed through the door, and his heart ignored every lick of common sense by flipping upside down at her return. “Here.”
He took the broom from her extended hand—keeping his fingers from touching hers lest she see how her presence affected him—and began gently sweeping away pebbles, hay, and loose dirt from the barn’s center.
“Why are you going so slowly?” she whispered, her face inches from his left bicep.
She smelled clean and a little bit of lye, a heady combination that made him think of soap and baths and things best not imagined. “I’m trying to preserve evidence,” he whispered back.
“Like what?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need this.” He angled the broom toward her.
Silence. Then, “Why are we whispering?”
Mac laughed, all his mental instructions to keep himself from finding her adorable flying out the barn door at her nearness. “You started it.”
She laughed, too. “I suppose I did. What’s that?” Her full-voiced question sounded like a shout in the quiet barn. She knelt and dug at something white and oval-shaped. When she pulled it free of the compact dirt, she held it up. “See how helpful I am? I found a rock.”
He was already a goner, so there was no point in holding back a chuckle at her dry wit. “A truly helpful discovery.”
Ten minutes later, the entire floor swept, they’d discovered nothing more helpful. So much for the prickling. Either he was losing his edge, or being near Emilia Collins played havoc with his lawman instincts.
Mac blew out a breath. “I wish I knew what Finn was up to out here.”
“What do you mean?” She took the broom and leaned it against the wall.
“I found his hat there.” He pointed to the nail hook opposite the stall where Finn had kept his horse. “But he was shot in the cabin.”
She scratched the base of her neck. “I don’t understand why that’s suspicious to you.”
“Finn never would have left the barn without his hat. It was either on his head or in his hand.”
“Maybe he was distracted and forgot.”
“Distracted by what?”
“An animal. A person.” She gasped. “What if someone was pointing a gun at him?”
“That’s a possibility.” Mac leaned against the post behind him. “Every crime is a story. Some of them are simple and straightforward, like John stole bread because he was hungry and had no money. Others are complex and interwoven with other stories. Finn’s story has too many pieces for it to be simple, so now I have to figure out why it’s complex and whose story interweaves with his.”
She nodded. “And what the thingamajig has to do with Finn’s murder?”
“More like if it’s connected. It could be nothing.”
She brushed loose hay from her apron. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Sheriff McCall.”
“Emilia . . .” His mother was right. Her name rolled off his tongue.
She gave him a wary look. “Yes?”
“Would you mind calling me Mac?” When she didn’t answer right away, he rushed on. “Most people around here do.”
Something mischievous glinted in her eyes. “I suppose I could. On one condition.”
He already knew what it was.
“That you tell me what the L stands for in your signature.”
Not what he’d expected. “All right . . . on one condition.”
She took a step toward the open barn door. “What? That I let you help us?” Her teasing grin didn’t match the sharp-edged questions.
“No. That you let me tell you a story.”
She blinked a couple of times, her mouth falling open in surprise. “All right, Mac.” Pink crept into her cheeks, as though saying his name felt as breathtaking to her as hearing it fall from her lips had felt to him. “It better not be too long, though. I need to change clothes for Luanne Palmer’s bridal tea. It’s a forty-minute drive to Helena.”
Mac refrained from asking how she knew the bride well enough to be invited to the tea. It didn’t matter. What mattered was whether Emilia would think of the invitation as another debt that courtesy demanded she repay.
He tipped his hat back on his head. “Are you familiar with the Bible story about the paralyzed man lying on a mat who was lowered through a roof so he could be healed?”
“Yes.”
“Who brought him to Jesus?”
“His friends.”
Mac licked his lips. “Here’s the thing. All of us want to be the friends in that story. We want to be the ones helping, the ones lifting the burden for others, but sometimes—if we want deliverance from whatever it is that’s crippling our bodies or souls—we have to be willing to lie still on our mat and let others carry us.”
She didn’t stomp away or throw the nearby rake at his head; she simply stared at him like she was working out a puzzle as perplexing as her late husband’s murder. The sound of a door slamming in the distance flicked her attention away from him. “I need to go or I’ll be late for the tea.”
Mac watched her leave, then bowed his head and prayed the story would take root inside her heart.
Palmer family dining room
Later that morning
“When did you first realize you were in love?”
Emilia stopped stitching a pearl bead onto the tulle bridal veil. She looked at Miss Carline Pope, trying to gauge why she’d ask such a bold question. Despite Miss Pope’s twice-a-week shopping trips to The Resale Co., they’d never exchanged more than a few words. Not long after Emilia and Luci arrived at the bride’s tea, Miss Pope had shared how she, too, had only been invited because of her friendship with Yancey Palmer, the ever-welcoming maid of honor. With their blond hair, blue eyes, and striking looks, Miss Pope and Yancey ought to have a fair share of gentlemen callers. Yet neither were courting.
“With Finn,” Miss Pope added softly. “I think how you met is so romantic.”
Yancey smiled at the ladies around the table. “I was Emilia’s proxy.”
And then she and Miss Pope focused on Emilia in expectation. More like in desperation for her to confirm their own struggles with knowing whether they were truly in love. What was she supposed to say? Yes, Yancey, your feelings for Hale Adams are true, and in time he will reciprocate? Emilia had no deep insight into love. Nor could she see the future. Of course the object of Miss Pope’s affection could be Geddes Palmer. Or one of the Gunderson twins. Or any one of the numerous bachelors who attended their church or lived about town.
Except Mac.
Emilia had never seen Miss Pope speak with Mac for any length of time. She couldn’t believe Miss Pope bore tender feelings for him. If she did, and Mac reciprocated, Emilia would be happy for them. She would. But Mac and Miss Pope together seemed wrong. Very wrong. And just the thought of it made her chest hurt.
Someone made a noise. Emilia glanced around the table. The six older women sitting around the tulle-covered table had stopped stitching pearl beads onto the veil’s edge. All stared at Emilia.
The cloying scent of a dozen potted lilacs permeated the dining room as the women sat there and stared. And stared.
“I’m not sure,” Emilia answered and hoped the conversation would move on. She looked at the bride, desperate for someone else to answer Miss Pope’s question. “Luanne, what about you and Mr. Bennett? When did you know you wanted to marry him?”
Miss Alice Rigney, sitting between her mother and Mrs. Hollenbeck, leaned forward on her chair. Her gaze narrowed on Em
ilia. “How can you not be sure?” she said, her voice somewhere between curiosity and impatience. “That doesn’t make sense to me. You had to have known you loved Mr. Collins or else you wouldn’t have agreed to marry him.”
“Alice!” Mrs. Rigney grabbed her daughter’s arm, pulling her back. “Don’t be impolite.”
Emilia’s face warmed. Her cheeks surely matched her dress. Hearing chuckles, she looked to where Luci and Melrose were huddled in a corner of the room, but their attention was focused on whatever Melrose was sketching in her journal.
“I apologize, Mrs. Collins,” Mrs. Rigney said.
Emilia looked back to see the woman peering around her daughter and Mrs. Hollenbeck.
Mrs. Rigney’s chin tipped up. “Alice’s views regarding love are a mite . . . idealistic. She is used to speaking directly for the benefit of her sixth graders. I promise she meant no offense.”
Miss Rigney opened her mouth and—
Mrs. Hollenbeck held her threadless needle in front of Miss Rigney’s face. “Rethread, please.”
“And mine, too,” Mrs. Forsythe graciously said, stretching her arm across the table.
Mrs. Snowe, Mrs. Truett, and Miss Babcock offered their needles as well.
Miss Rigney sighed, then stuck all but one of the needles in the pin pillow and began her chosen job of rethreading.
Mrs. Palmer stood. She brushed the strands of white thread from her dress. “Perhaps now is a fitting moment to check on the food.”
“Excellent idea.” With a smile that only enhanced her beauty, Mrs. Forsythe followed Mrs. Palmer into the kitchen, clearly content with acting in Mrs. Pawlikowski’s stead because Mrs. Palmer’s dearest friend was away on a belated honeymoon.
The friendships among the women participating in the bride’s tea astounded Emilia. Miss Babcock and Miss Rigney taught at Central School and had remained friends with Luanne even after she was fired from teaching. According to Mr. Gunderson, Judge Forsythe had proposed to his mother prior to her marrying Mr. Pawlikowski. Both couples had grown close over the years. While at Spiegel, Emilia had become friendly with several of her fellow shop-girls, but whenever one was fired or ran off and eloped, she never returned to the store, never contacted Emilia, never made any attempt to continue the friendship.
To have a friend like these women had . . .
Miss Luanne Palmer cleared her throat. “To answer your question, Emilia, I knew for certain I was in love with Roy when he gave up his desire to live in Denver.”
Emilia stared at her, dumbfounded. “But aren’t you moving there after the wedding?”
“Love makes sacrifices.” Luanne wove her still-threaded needle into the beaded headdress, then set it on the table. “Roy took a job here because he knew how important my family and friends are to me.”
Emilia understood the obligation Luanne was under. Whether she wanted to move to Denver or not, courtesy demanded the gift be returned. “Agreeing to move to Denver after the wedding is your way of repaying his sacrifice.”
Luanne’s lips quivered into a smile. “I can see how it could seem that way. My father likes to say, A healthy relationship is when both parties know how to give and take.”
Mrs. Truett, Mrs. Snowe, and Mrs. Hollenbeck all nodded.
Luanne gave her sister a pointed look. “Roy and I have been happy here in Helena,” she said, and Emilia realized Luanne’s words were meant for her younger sister. “Moving to Denver is what we realized we both want to do.” She clenched Yancey’s hand. “Someday you will understand what it means to put the man you love ahead of your family.”
Yancey’s eyes grew watery.
Mrs. Hollenbeck stood and clapped her hands twice. “Ladies, I do believe I heard the clink of china. It’s time we retire to the parlor.” Within moments, the stately woman had everyone out of the dining room . . . except for the Palmer sisters, who clearly needed a private moment.
Emilia stopped at the parlor’s threshold as the other ladies found seats. She glanced back toward the dining room. Nothing in Luanne’s voice or expression had testified to any falseness in her words. Love sacrificed. Love gave with no expectation of anything in return. If Luanne and Roy could live out what they believed, then it was possible the Palmers had invited Emilia to the bride’s tea out of friendship, not pity. By the same token, it was possible Mr. Gunderson had offered to lend them the croquet set out of friendship, not in an attempt to indebt them to him.
To know for sure meant to ask if his offer was still available. To ask meant taking a step of faith. To see if, according to the story Mac had shared earlier, she could allow people to help her, knowing full well they may want something in return, but they may not. They may enjoy doing nice things for others—for her—merely for the sake of doing something nice. Blessed to give, or so she’d heard Mrs. Palmer say.
Since she’d arrived in Helena, Mac had repeatedly helped her and had yet to ask for a returned favor. Was he so convinced people were like that because he lived that way?
Emilia’s chest ached something strange, something fierce.
When Miss Pope asked what it felt like when Emilia fell in love, the first face that had come to her mind was Mac’s. Not Finn’s. The anticipation she used to feel before opening one of Finn’s letters was the same as she’d felt this morning waiting for Mac to arrive at the ranch. Was that what it felt like when one was falling in love? Or was the futile ability to breathe evenly around Mac a prelude to it? Maybe she’d never really been in love with Finn. Maybe she’d fallen in gratitude. How did one know the difference between being in love, infatuation, and passing attraction? She certainly was drawn to Mac. But that didn’t necessitate love.
While Mac had been different at the ranch—more relaxed, more engaging—he’d done nothing to suggest he viewed her as anything but his friend’s widow.
Of course he could be waiting for a sign that she would welcome his attentions. Some men were like that. But if she did and he wasn’t interested—she couldn’t be that bold. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t become another Yancey Palmer.
She refused to fall in love with a man who didn’t return her feelings.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning
Nothing like food and ladies to draw men to church.
Emilia gripped Luci’s right hand, then stepped inside the crowded church aisle, the air tinted with cologne and sweat. Surely every pew wasn’t filled. Couldn’t be. Where were the dozens of people standing going to sit? Not once in the last four Sundays had the building been this full. She bumped into a man in a tweed suit smelling of cigars.
He turned and glared.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “Excuse me.”
He nodded and stepped to the right to give her room to pass.
“Hey, there’s Mac,” Luci said, tugging Emilia’s hand.
Emilia looked around for Mac. She found him sitting on the left side of the fourth row, his gaze focused downward. Reading? Praying? If he were Roch, she’d guess sleeping. Thankfully, she didn’t feel out of breath or fluttery or aware of his presence. She felt at ease. Such a welcome feeling after yesterday.
“Emme, let’s sit with him.”
Should they? There was space enough for two people between Mac and an older woman in a straw hat. He couldn’t be saving the spots for them. “There isn’t room for Roch,” Emilia explained. “It’s better if we sit over there.”
Luci glanced around. “I don’t see—”
“Right there.” Emilia motioned to the pew three rows behind Mac, with enough room for Roch to sit, too. As long as Mac didn’t look their way, she could slide into the other pew. That way when—if—he noticed her, they’d already be seated and he wouldn’t feel obligated to invite them over.
He looked their way. And smiled.
Once again her chest felt all fluttery. Emilia frantically nudged Luci toward the open pew, but Luci wouldn’t budge. Eyes narrowed, she seemed preoccupied with studying the family on the pew in front of Ma
c’s.
Mac stepped out into the aisle and waved them over. “Come on. There’s room.”
Emilia hesitated. True, he looked happy to see them. But her heart pounded fiercely, and her legs felt weighted to the floor. If they sat with him, people might presume things. As kind and innocent as Mac’s offer was, she should be wise and not—
“You’re so slothy this morning.” Luci shoved Emilia forward.
Slothy? Of all the animals in the world that Luci could discover existed during her class’s study on South America, she had to develop a fascination with the sloth. You’re so slothy could only mean her sister considered her slow. Or that she hosted moths, beetles, fungi, and algae on her body. Emilia elected to believe the former.
Anyone would be slow if faced with a cold sponge bath on a rainy morning. True, she had wasted time staring into the bucket of well water and thinking about the warm—all right, occasionally warm—tub baths back in the small bathroom they’d shared with three other families. She wanted a real bath. One with scented soap and oils she’d read about in the newspaper. She wanted to take the luxurious bedsheets she and Luci slept on each night and sew them new Sunday dresses. She wanted what Finn had promised: a partner, a friend, a—
She tripped over someone’s foot. “Excuse me,” she called out, stumbling forward and hoping the owner of the injured foot heard her. Luci grabbed Emilia’s hand and pulled her past the podium, around the front pew, and then back down the aisle.
Mac stood against the wall. He motioned for them to sit.
Luci slid onto the bench, tapping the shoulder of the boy in the pew in front of them. “Hey, Seth. Missed you in class last week.”
The dark-haired boy turned around. He looked startled for a moment, as if he was surprised she knew his name. “I had to help Pa build a new chicken coop.”
