Lydia. Elizabeth Lane

fair, Sarah reflected bitterly. Marie was sweet and kind and had never willed harm to anyone. She should have had a different life—a home, children, the love of a good man. Now, even the brief, sad life she’d had was nearly over.

      “I could take her to my place,” Sarah said. “At least Smitty would leave her in peace there.”

      “Nein,” Greta interjected swiftly. “With Marie in your room, how could you have the children come for their lessons? And what would their mamas say? You would have to close your little school.”

      “We can handle Smitty. Don’t you worry none ‘bout that,” Faye added. “We done like you said—told the ol’ buzzard none of us would work ‘less’n he let Marie stay. He’ll come ‘round. Ain’t got much choice. He won’t get no new girls comin’ to a town like this ‘un.”

      Sarah sighed wearily, one hand brushing back Marie’s dark, damp hair. “Give her as much of the tea as she’ll take. At this point, there’s not much else you can do. I’ll be around to see her again tomorrow night.”

      “No need your takin’ so many chances, Miss Sarah,” Faye said. “You know what some of the ladies in this town would say if they ever saw you comin’ in here.”

      Sarah nodded, knowing Faye was right. There were women in Miner’s Gulch, self-styled social leaders like Mrs. Eudora Cahill, who would brand her an instant pariah if they knew she associated with Smitty’s girls. In the days ahead their support would be more important than ever. But right now Marie needed her. And even in the face of wisdom, one did not turn one’s back on a friend.

      She leaned over, clasped Marie’s fleshless hand and felt the tightening of the frail fingers. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she whispered. “Meanwhile, you get some sleep. Try to have some beautiful dreams—” The words died as emotion choked her throat. Tears flooded her eyes as she turned away from the bed and left the room.

      The night breeze blew cold on Sarah’s damp face as she made her way home through the alley. Thoughts of Marie mingled with the memory of Donovan’s threat, churning like a maelstrom in her mind. There was nothing she could do for Marie. And there was very little she could do about Donovan. Another man might be charmed or cajoled into changing his mind. But not Donovan Cole. He was too bitter, too determined, too cocksure that she would turn tail and run.

      She could not let him win.

      Whatever happened, Sarah resolved, she would not let Donovan see her fear. Until he played his ace against her, she would behave as if nothing had happened. She would hold her head high and go about her usual business.

      Sarah’s heart lurched with the sudden realization that her usual business would include looking in on Varina. She always followed up her deliveries with visits to the new mothers. If she did not come, Varina would wonder why.

       Unless Donovan had already told her.

      Sarah’s pulse skipped erratically as she mounted the back stairs of Satterlee’s store. Every impulse screamed at her to run—to fling her essentials into a bag, saddle her mule and ride for her life.

      But running was out of the question. Miner’s Gulch was her home. If she did not take a stand here and now, no place on earth would ever be home to her again.

      The schoolroom was dark with familiar shadows; warm, still, from the embers that glowed in the potbellied stove. Locking the door behind her, Sarah paused at the threshold of her bedroom. Her eyes lingered affectionately on the squat log benches, the slates piled haphazardly in a far corner, the rows of sums and minuses chalked neatly across the blackboard. Not much of a kingdom. But it was hers. She had built it, carved it out of nothing, with pluck and patience as her only tools.

      It was good, she reassured herself as she hung up her cloak, opened the bedroom door and lit the brass lamp on the dresser. She had made herself useful here. She had made a difference in people’s lives.

       Could it be? Had her father had been wrong, after all?

      Her hands moved to the high muslin collar of her shirtwaist, fingers unfastening the buttons with practiced skill until the prim garment fell open in front. Sarah slipped her arms out of the sleeves and hung it with her other things on the row of hooks that served in place of a wardrobe. She could not afford to be careless with her clothes. They had to last.

      With a weary sigh, she raised her arms and began plucking away the pins that held her hair in its tight bun. The silky locks tumbled loose, bringing back a sudden stab of memory. Donovan—his fingers tangling in her hair, eyes probing hers, dark and hot, seething with unanswered questions…

      Turning, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror—arms lifted, cheeks flushed, lips damply parted. She froze, staring at her own image. One hand quivered upward to touch her cheek.

      She had almost succeeded in forgetting that she was pretty.

      Seized by a sudden wild compulsion, she curved her mouth into a smile, inclining her head, arching the fine, dark wings of her brows. The image in the glass assumed a subtle sensuality, an air of unmistakable invitation.

       Lydia.

      Sarah’s arms dropped to her sides as the sound of laughter echoed and faded in her mind. Was this what Donovan had wanted when he’d ripped the pins from her hair? Deep inside, without his even knowing, was it really Lydia he had wanted to see?

      Driven by dark emotions, she raised her arms again, tightening the fabric of the worn chemise against her breasts. Her hands lifted and spread the satin wealth of her hair. Her eyelids lowered coquettishly.

      “You’re no good, Sarah Jane Parker!” Her minister father’s voice rumbled like a tempest out of the past. “Wasting your time playacting! Prancing and posing like a strumpet! Vanity is the devil’s tool, Sarah! Mark my words! Remember them when you’re burning in hell!”

      Sarah spun away from the mirror, hands quivering where they pressed her cold face. She’d gotten word from a cousin after the war that her father had died of apoplexy in New Bedford. In the eight long years since she’d run off with Reginald Buckley, he had not once spoken her name.

      Sometimes at night, when the wind howled high in the Colorado pines, his voice echoed in her dreams, its thunder blending with the roar of cannon fire, the screams of horses and the groans of the wounded.

      “You can’t hide from the sight of God, Sarah Jane! Wherever you go, his wrath will find you, and in the end, you will burn for your sins! The devil will seize you and carry you down, and burn you forever in hell!”

      Sarah blew out the lamp and finished undressing in the dark. She tugged her flannel nightgown over her head and buttoned it to her throat with trembling fingers. Moonlight made a window-square on the patchwork quilt as she crawled between the sheets and lay rigid, eyes wide open in the darkness.

      Strange, how some things never seemed to change. As a little girl, she had lain awake at night, listening to the creaks and groans of the old frame house, waiting for the devil to come and snatch her from her bed. Twenty years later, she still jumped at shadows, her fear so deep that it defied every effort to reason it away.

      When would it come, the moment of reckoning when the fire would exact its toll?

      Impatient, Sarah turned over and punched her pillow. She had problems enough in the here and now, she reminded herself. The devil might be biding his time, but Donovan Cole was not. Donovan was not a patient man. His revenge would be swift and without mercy.

      Unless she could think of a way to beat him at his own game.

      Restless now, she flopped onto her side, feet jerking at the tightly tucked quilts. There had to be an answer—there was always an answer.

      All she had to do was find it.

      Sleep was impossible. Sarah rolled out of bed, flung on her robe and strode to the window. The tick of the schoolroom clock echoed in the silence as she