.

the woodstove, I can have it delivered in the morning. Works fine, never gave me trouble.”

      She glanced to where he motioned. Surrounded by a stone floor that would deaden any stray sparks, a shiny cast-iron stove crackled with fire. Beside it sat an empty smaller stove, the one to which he pointed. She took a step closer, enjoying the warmth on her frozen toes. It’d taken such a long time for her to stoke the fire in the shack this morning due to the damp wood, and longer still to get it rolling to this wonderful blaze. She hoped her grandmother was still enjoying its heat.

      “I’m not here about the stove.”

      When she turned around again, he was seated and rummaging through his desk. “Well, whatever it is, my foreman will handle it. I’m expected somewhere in twenty minutes. Patrick, come here a moment,” he shouted to the far side of the mill, at one of the men hammering a cabinet, then reached back into his top drawer. “What on earth is this?” He pulled out a gray envelope, tore open the letter and began to read.

      While keeping her waiting! Perhaps she should take her business elsewhere and forget about his excellent recommendations. How could he let her sit at his heels while he read his correspondence?

      He winced, then paled. A flash of vulnerability rippled across his face.

      Was he in some sort of trouble? She didn’t know much about him. Mr. Finnigan had mentioned he was unmarried, that the sawmill was a Murdock family business and that Finnigan himself was simply an investor. She moaned with sympathy. You never knew what someone else’s pain felt like until you walked in their shoes. The neighborly thing to do would be to help instead of to criticize.

      Stepping closer, she squeezed the frayed ribbon of her purse. “What is it? Is it…bad news?”

      He jerked out of his concentration. A wave of redness washed his face. “Nothing.” He folded the sheet and jammed it into his denim pocket.

      Before she had a moment to think about that, a flash of white fur caught the corner of her eye. She looked up as the dog raced toward her. He shook himself, spraying water in a six foot diameter.

      Amanda yelped, then laughed, cupping a hand over her face.

      Disarmed, Tom leaped from his chair, encircling her waist, tugging her out of the spray and standing in the line of fire himself. “Wolf!” When the dog stopped, Tom peered down at her. “Sorry, he’s gotten you all wet.”

      She managed an awkward smile, well aware of his hard fingers pressing through her clothing. How long had it been since a man had touched her?

      “Luckily, I’ve got my rain slicker on,” she murmured, inches from his face.

      At least the dog had penetrated Tom’s veneer. Transformed him, really. Creases appeared at the corners of his warm eyes. A boyish smile touched his mouth and those deep dimples reappeared. The scent of his shaving lotion met her nostrils again. It was something she missed, sharing those intimacies with a man, waking up together, watching him shave.

      Uncomfortable with the awkward silence and his touch, she wriggled free and removed her plaid bonnet. She wasn’t ready for any man to touch her, no matter how much she wished she were. He cleared his throat with an anxious cough, but his eyes followed the movement of her hand as she patted the damp bun beneath her mended kerchief. When he glanced at her plain clothing, she moistened her dry lips. How long had it been since she’d dressed to impress anyone?

      The moment dispelled at the sound of the dog chewing. Tom’s tall dark figure sprang toward a stack of lumber where the dog crouched, chewing on something brown. “Hey, dammit, give me back my glove.”

      The husky wanted to play. Tom charged around her, his broad shoulders leaning behind the desk, but the dog escaped with a glove between his teeth. The two were amusing, and the beautiful animal reminded her of her own two lovable mutts, Missy and Ranger, which she’d lost when she’d lost her husband, William. She missed the dogs.

      “I’ll get the glove,” hollered Patrick as he whizzed by.

      With a look of exasperation, Tom shoved a hand through his wavy black hair, turned back to her and caught her soft laughter.

      “My dog’s well trained, don’t you think? Took me nearly a year to get him to this level of obedience.”

      “You’ve done a marvelous job.”

      Tom’s subtle grin played with her pulse. Friendliness flickered in his eyes, and he seemed ten years younger. Mid-thirties? This time, he really looked at her, her simple country bonnet, her kerchief, her high-laced, worn-out leather boots with the temporary insole covering the hole she hoped he couldn’t see. Heat seeped into her cheeks as she glanced away. But the boots had lasted one more winter, and the cold weather was almost over for the year. Speaking of which, her toes had warmed up, but were thawing and tingling with pain.

      She moved her slender body away from the fire. Perhaps she should ask for his partner. “I’ve…I’ve come to see Mr. Finnigan.”

      Tom shifted. A thundercloud appeared on his face again. “Finnigan? What business do you have with him?”

      The harsh tone of his voice sent a shiver through her spine. How could a man turn abruptly from one mood to the next?

      “I’m new to town, and you’re a builder, aren’t you? And you do supply lumber? That’s what Mr. Finnigan told me.”

      As she stared into Tom’s intimidating features, the firm line of his lips, the challenge in his eyes, her body vibrated with determination. She already knew he supplied the cheapest lumber in town, seeing that he owned the only sawmill.

      “Zeb Finnigan hasn’t been in town for five days. How did you happen to meet him if he wasn’t here?”

      “We met in Calgary last month, at the Cattlemen’s dinner. My…my husband used to be a member.”

      “Used to?”

      She gulped. “He’s gone now. I’m…I’m widowed.”

      The harsh line of his black brows softened, but the caution in his voice remained. “I’m sorry.”

      She pressed her lips closed and glanced down at the floor, away from his appraising stare. She hadn’t meant to…tell a fib. It just came out. In truth, she hadn’t known for sure what she’d say when someone asked about her former husband, and yet here it was. She’d fibbed. And why?

      Because looking up at Tom Murdock, she didn’t feel like fessing up to her failures. She didn’t feel like having him look at her with sorrow, the way everyone always did. She’d finished with her mourning, and her anger at her former husband, and was ready to start anew. She was eager to resume the skills her late grandfather—one of the hardest working doctors in Calgary—had taught her. Midwifery skills to help the women who sought her help, and medical knowledge to tend to children and their ailments.

      Realizing her fib wouldn’t hold for long, for as soon as Mr. Finnigan arrived, he was a man who knew the truth about her husband, she felt herself flush. She’d fibbed and hadn’t done it well.

      Amanda straightened her spine. It was no one’s business but hers. “I’ve bought some property and I’d like to build a log cabin. Something simple, with a couple of spare rooms in the back.” She’d already allotted every nickel of her small inheritance to put toward her practice and the children.

      “I think I’ve heard of you,” he said, recognition shimmering in his bright eyes. He sat on the edge of his desk. The wood creaked beneath his muscled weight. “You’re new to town, just been here since yesterday, right? Are you that woman I spotted at the mercantile yesterday afternoon, who rides that—”

      “What difference does that make?”

      “No difference.” His grin was charming. The row of strong, white teeth wasn’t quite centered, so his smile seemed especially intriguing. “We’re friendly folks in Banff. We’ve never seen anything like it before, that’s all.”

      She