Her Colorado Man. Cheryl St.John

can’t be your roommate.”

      “I promise,” he said with all seriousness and gave Wes a pleased grin.

      “Tell us of the women in Alaska,” Henrietta prompted.

      “Well, ma’am, the females are mostly from native tribes, the Tlingits, Haidas, and Tsimshians…and near the coasts the Eskimos.”

      Little Emma had wedged her way into the gathering of children that had once again formed. “What do the Eskimos wear?”

      “Sealskin leggings and coats, rabbit skin boots mostly,” he replied.

      “It sounds like a fascinating place,” Henrietta commented.

      “And beautiful in its own way. The cities are filled with sightseers,” he told her. “They are the ones who pay the highest prices for food and mail delivery.”

      His gaze fell upon Mariah, seated quietly beside him, her slender fingers linked in her lap. She asked no questions, didn’t even appear to be interested in the conversation, though she paid close attention to her son’s animated face as well as those of her family members.

      Faye brought Wes a cup of rich black coffee that smelled wonderful and tasted even better.

      “Be off now,” Henrietta told the children. “Give our guest air.”

      They obediently scrambled away.

      He searched the faces of the family members, watched them interact with each other.

      The children divided into groups to play games, and the adults picked up their own conversations.

      Wes found it hard to imagine that John James and Mariah were related to every person in this room. Mariah had four brothers and two sisters he’d met so far, as well as an army of cousins, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews.

      He didn’t know what it felt like to belong to a family. Or what it was like to look into a mother’s face or see a father’s hands and recognize where some part of him originated. What did it feel like to know the love and secure acceptance of people with the same name or the same eyes and a shared history?

      He glanced around to make sure no one was listening and asked quietly, “You work at the brewery?”

      Seeming startled that he’d addressed her directly, she nodded.

      “What do you do?”

      She, too, checked to see that no one overheard. “I oversee production and handle promotional events. Right now we’re getting ready for the Exposition that opens in Denver July 17.”

      “I’ve heard talk of it. I read in the New York Times about the mining companies creating exhibits. Railroads and artists will have displays, too. They’re going to start a two hundred and fifty horsepower Corliss engine on opening day. I read that the Denver hotels are booked already.”

      He’d been reading newspapers for the past couple of months, first while recuperating and then aboard the ship. Her surprised expression said she hadn’t expected him to know so much about it.

      “Over a year ago, I reserved an entire floor of rooms at a hotel. We’ve constructed a building inside the grounds where we’ll cook, store lager and have displays of the brewery’s history. An outdoor beer garden will be set up for entertaining.”

      “Sounds like an enormous undertaking.”

      “We’ll be giving away beer the whole time. We have special bottles and labels. Handling the advance production has been a yearlong project. Some of us will be on site at all times, soliciting contracts. Now that we’re bottling, this is an opportunity to spread our product and our name across the country.”

      It was more than she’d said since he’d arrived, and her enthusiasm for her subject was apparent. “Making beer is an unusual occupation for a woman.”

      “Not for a Spangler woman,” she replied. “My mother and grandmother worked at the brewery. It’s a family business.”

      He tilted his head. “I admire that.”

      She lifted her bright gaze and searched his face as though seeking his sincerity. She was lovely, this prickly woman, but her blue eyes sparked fire.

      Her resentment was understandable. He was butting into her family. And because she had a secret she didn’t want revealed, she wasn’t calling him on his deceit. He wouldn’t let himself feel bad about that. He was giving her son more than he was taking from her.

      John James giggled and pulled his pant leg away from the puppy’s nipping teeth, and Mariah turned her attention. Her entire expression softened when she looked at him.

      Louis spoke to Wes about his friend Otto, whom Wes had known over the years he delivered mail from the Juneau City station, so they shared the loss of a friend.

      Eventually the children grew tired and sought out their parents, and a trio of women came to stand before Wes and Mariah.

      “We prepared your room,” the one named Annika said. She was the same height as Mariah, but with much paler hair and a sprinkling of freckles. “Would you like me to help John James get ready for bed?”

      Mariah stood quickly. “No, I can do it.”

      John James looked up at Wes with a hopeful expression. “Will you tuck me in?”

      Wes glanced from his cherubic face to Mariah’s barely disguised scowl. She gave a stiff nod that must have pained her.

      “I will,” he replied.

      “Give us ten minutes,” she said and took the boy’s hand. “Annika, please show Wesley the way.”

      Her sister perched in the spot Mariah had vacated. “We’ve all been eager to meet Mariah’s husband. John James has been talking about your arrival for weeks.”

      Wes smiled politely. “Pleasure to meet you, too, ma’am.”

      “Did you find any gold?”

      “A little here and there. I settled on a job that was as good as gold, and a sure thing.”

      “As long as you survived the bears,” Dutch added from across the room.

      “There was that,” Wes answered, and several of them laughed.

      “Don’t crowd the man,” Louis said good-naturedly.

      Eventually Annika got up to lead Wes through the foyer and up a wide set of curved stairs that opened into a comfortable open area with sofas, desks and shelves full of games and books.

      “This is where the youngsters who live in the big house play and do their schoolwork,” she explained. “John James’s room is on the left down this hall.” She stopped and indicated an open door.

      Wes thanked her with a nod and entered.

      John James lay in a narrow bed with a thick flannel quilt folded down to the bottom. On the other side of the room, a sleepy-eyed Paul watched them from a similar bed.

      Mariah, who’d been sitting beside her boy, stood and backed away from John James’s side, so Wes could approach.

      “Hey, big fella,” Wes said to her son.

      “Hey. How come you walk like that anyway?”

      “Got my leg stuck in a bear trap last winter,” Wes told him. “It’s all but healed now.”

      “I’m glad you’re here,” John James told him, his eyes solemn.

      Wes’s chest got tight. “I’m glad, too.”

      “I dreamed about you a hundred times.”

      “You did?”

      “Uh-huh. An’ you look just like I dreamed.”

      “Did I walk like this in your dreams?”

      “Don’t