Montana Cowboy Daddy. Linda Ford

she’s beautiful,” the child whispered, as she stared at Isabelle.

      Amusement tickled Isabelle’s insides but she decided it was wise to disguise it in view of the frown on Mr. Marshall’s face.

      “Welcome to Bella Creek.” Dawson greeted each of them. His expression cooled considerably when he met Isabelle’s gaze. “Thank you for coming in answer to our appeal for help.”

      His latent displeasure didn’t bother her except to refuel her indignation that a child had been in danger.

      The various trunks and crates had been unloaded from the stage and with a “Hey, there” from the driver, the horses pulled away, leaving a clear view to the sight on the other side of the street.

      Isabelle stared. The whole of the block had been burned to the ground. Blackened timbers and a brick chimney stood like mute, angry survivors. One section had been scraped bare except for remnants of spring snow clinging to the corners. And in the midst of it stood a new building, so fresh and out of place amid the rubble on each side that it looked naked. Shock chilled Isabelle’s veins at the sight. She pulled her scarf closer around her neck.

      Dawson Marshall strode over to stand nearby as they both studied the scene. “This winter a fire destroyed the dry-goods store, the lawyer’s office, the barbershop, the doctor’s office and residence, and the school. We’re grateful it didn’t jump the street and burn the church.”

      She’d read the news of the fire. Knew it to be the reason they needed a doctor and a schoolteacher, but to see the stark evidence gave it a whole different meaning. “Was anyone hurt?” She shuddered at the thought.

      Kate and Sadie joined Isabelle at the edge of the veranda, crowding her closer to Dawson and his daughter.

      He answered her question though he addressed the entire group. “Doc burned his hands trying to save his equipment. It will be some time before he can resume his duties, if he ever does. He said it was time to retire. He and his wife moved to California. The teacher wept profusely at the loss of her precious books and left town on the next stage, saying she would never return.”

      “Hence your need for replacements.” Her scarf was tugged. She reached to contain it but stilled her hand when she saw the little girl behind Dawson fingering it.

      She bent and smiled at the child. “What’s your name?”

      “I’m Mattie. I’m six.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Mattie.”

      Mattie’s face lit with a smile.

      Dawson moved away to speak to the doctor, Mattie firmly in hand.

      Isabelle watched him. A big man with a strong face. Raising a child on his own. How did he manage?

      Not that it concerned her.

      Shifting her attention away, she met Grandfather Marshall’s eyes. He grinned at her, his gaze darting to Dawson and back.

      Goodness. Did he think she had an interest in his grandson? If only he knew she had no interest in men at all. No, she’d learned her lesson. They never saw beyond her inheritance. She’d allowed herself to believe Jamieson Grieve cared for her. After all, he had no need of her money. His father owned a successful bank. But then had come talk of how he’d invest Isabelle’s inheritance in establishing more banks. Once started on the topic of Isabelle’s money, it seemed he could talk of nothing else. She’d broken off with him, wanting to be seen as more than the source of a large bank account.

      It had taken one more failure in the shape of Andy Anderson for the lesson to be embedded. A humble store clerk who daily espoused the evils of money as the root of all vices, he’d said a man ought to work for what he had and take pride in doing so. Believing he loved her for herself, she’d agreed to a betrothal. That was when she felt she must tell him about her inheritance.

      Turned out he’d always known—why should she have believed otherwise? The man would have to be blind and deaf not to know. After their betrothal, he had wanted her to contact her lawyer and, as her future husband, have himself named as trustee of her estate. He said he knew how to put the money to good use.

      That was when she’d said goodbye, a sadder but much wiser woman. From now on, she would not trust that a man’s affections were not influenced by her inheritance. Perhaps by hiding the truth about herself, she could learn the real meaning of a person’s interest in her.

      “Doctor.” Dawson’s voice brought her back to the present situation. “You have patients waiting. Three men were injured by falling machinery. Which of these are yours?” He indicated the stack of crates and trunks.

      “I’ll need those and those right away,” the doctor answered, pointing to several crates.

      Dawson waved at the nearby men. “Let’s get these over to the doctor’s office.” He turned to Sadie. “Miss Young, I’m afraid I don’t have time to see you settled right now. Nor do we have your quarters ready. You’ll be staying in the hotel until we do. If you don’t mind going in and introducing yourself...”

      “I’ll manage just fine,” Sadie said and made her way to the hotel entrance.

      “I’ll take you to your new office and your patients.” Dawson nodded to the doctor, scooped Mattie into his arms and strode across the street.

      Isabelle followed Kate and Dr. Baker. She didn’t mean to miss this opportunity to prove she was an ordinary, everyday, useful sort of woman. Would she ever truly know acceptance as such rather than as a rich woman? Yes, she’d been blessed with it and unfettered love when her parents lived. Her mother, especially, lavished it on her. Isabelle didn’t doubt Cousin Augusta’s affection was genuine. But apart from Kate, every other friendship had been tainted by the color of her money.

      They crossed the rutted street and Isabelle had to concentrate on where she put her feet. It helped her avoid thinking of the fact that she meant to step into a doctor’s office...something she’d managed to avoid since her parents’ deaths. They entered a narrow room with benches on either side. A couple of dusty men sat clutching their hats and sprang to their feet as Dawson entered.

      “He’s here? The new doc?” one asked.

      Dr. Baker stepped forward. “I’m the doctor. Where are the injured men?”

      Two heads tipped in the direction of another door. Dr. Baker and Kate crossed toward it.

      Isabelle followed. The wood of the place being new, there were no sickroom odors. Nothing to remind her of when her parents were ill.

      She crossed the threshold into the other room, and after a fleeting glance at a mangled hand on one man and the blood-soaked rag around the head of a second, she averted her eyes from the third man stretched out on the examining table. Every muscle in her body tensed, just as they had back then. Perhaps if she concentrated on the supplies, she could manage to forget the sights and smells and fears she recalled from watching her parents die.

      She went to Kate’s side as her friend pried open one crate and quickly arranged an array of bottles and instruments on the shelves as Dr. Baker bent over the man on the examining table.

      Isabelle didn’t hear what the doctor said to Kate or if Kate knew what he needed without words. Kate uncorked a bottle and poured some liquid on a cloth and handed it to her father.

      The odor assailed Isabelle with revolting familiarity. The smell of sickness and death.

      The room tilted. Her stomach churned. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she fled back to the waiting room and sank to the nearest empty spot on a bench. She sucked in a deep breath to calm her stomach and slowly righted her head to meet the challenging look of Dawson Marshall. He’d removed his hat to reveal thick blond hair. A fine-looking man but one who—if she was to guess from the way his pale eyebrows knotted together—wondered at her sudden exit from the examining room.

      Unable to explain herself, she lowered her gaze to Mattie, who offered her wide-eyed wonder and then a shy