The Horseman's Frontier Family. Karen Kirst

and Clint were the only ones who really understood him. They accepted him. Didn’t try to change him like Susannah—

      Shoving to his feet, he strode to the stream and splashed his face and neck and wet his collar-length hair. Tying on a neckerchief, his fingers brushed the scruff on the underside of his chin. Time for a shave and haircut.

      As he stirred the fire and set the scuffed tin pot to boil, he kept a watchful eye on the other tent, hoping she’d prove to be a late riser. Conversation anytime was a stretch. Before breakfast bordered on criminal. What was more, he couldn’t fudge his way through. Evelyn Montgomery required all the focus and concentration he could muster.

      Low on provisions, he made due with corn mush that was about as tasteless as tree bark but filled his belly. He carried his coffee with him to the stable, stopping to greet Star and Snowball, a three-year-old gray he’d bought shortly after his arrival in Boomer Town. Their friendly greetings never failed to soothe him. Horses didn’t judge him or push him to be something he wasn’t. He understood animals better than he did most people. Actually preferred their company, if truth be told.

      Star nudged his shoulder.

      “Searching for treats, huh?” he ran a hand through her mane. “You’re outta luck. But I’ll see if I can’t scrounge up a carrot or two in town. How about that?”

      She dipped her head, seeming to agree with him. A fleeting smile lifted his lips.

      “Gotta go.” He pushed away from the fence. “The faster I get this stable up, the sooner you’ll have a roof over your heads.”

      Inside the structure, he surveyed his progress. The walls reached his waist. Since he couldn’t physically lift the logs any higher without help, he’d have to rig a pulley system.

      The sound of feet shuffling in the dirt behind him had him spinning about, hot coffee sloshing over the mug’s rim. His heart settled back into a somewhat normal rhythm when he spied his pint-size visitor.

      “Walt.”

      The boy hovered just inside the opening, his hands twisting behind his back, large, dark eyes surveying the interior with interest. His shirt buttons were off-center, the wrinkled hems uneven, and his wavy hair hadn’t yet seen a comb this day.

      Gideon searched the field beyond the opening, suddenly desperate for Evelyn’s presence. He did not want to be here alone with a walking reminder of his dead child.

      “Where’s your ma?” he croaked, throat muddy with trepidation.

      Pointless question. He hadn’t heard Walt Montgomery emit a squeak, let alone an intelligible response. Not that the child was slow-witted. Far from it. Intelligence shone in those Chaucer eyes.

      He pointed a chubby finger in the tent’s direction.

      “Is she making breakfast?”

      Walt shook his head, folded his hands and pressed them against his cheek.

      “She’s still asleep?”

      When he nodded and wandered over to the neat piles of tack—saddles, blankets, bridles and more—Gideon tamped down panic. “Uh, maybe you should go back to your tent. Your ma will worry if she wakes and finds you gone.”

      The little boy ignored his suggestion, touching a hesitant finger to this item and that, bending at the knees, peering closer. Inquisitive as well as intelligent.

      And without a father. Just as Gideon had been at that age.

      Drake Montgomery’s image resurfaced in his mind. Gideon could clearly recall the expression of hatred, of reckless resolve that drove him to push himself and his mount beyond their limits. He could still hear the frantic pleas for help as he lay writhing in pain. What kind of man had he been? What kind of husband? Father?

      Taking another swallow of the bitter coffee, Gideon dislodged the misplaced curiosity. Not his business, remember?

      Still standing in the same spot, he watched as Walt drifted over to the corner where the building tools were stacked. He picked up a hammer, tentatively testing its weight. When the boy lifted a beseeching gaze to him, Gideon was hurtled backward in time, to before the war that divided the nation and ripped his father from him, to a time when things were simple and good. His father had taught him how to pound nails into wood. How proud Gideon had been to be his helper.

      Spurred by poignant memories, he set the mug on the ground and, retrieving a discarded wood round, located the box of nails. He could spare a few minutes for a lonely little boy, even if it meant resurrecting pain that would devour him from the inside out if he let it.

      * * *

      Evelyn woke with the distinct feeling that something was off. But what? She lay motionless for a long moment, not breathing, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Breathing. Walt’s soft breathing wasn’t filling the tent’s cramped interior. The absence of it aroused all sorts of dire imaginings.

      Bolting upright, she called his name, lifting the blue-and-yellow-swirled quilt even though it was obvious he wasn’t here.

      She shoved her arms into the thin cotton housecoat, tugged on her boots without bothering to lace them. Stumbling outside, she searched both sides of the stream. The fields were empty. Tethered to the nearest tree, Petra turned her head and let out a welcoming bawl.

      “Walt?”

      Where could he be? Surely not with Gideon. To a shy kid like him, the man must seem like a giant. A big, brawny, intimidating giant. Clutching her housecoat lapels, she strode across the field, dewdrops wiping away yesterday’s dust from her boots.

      The steel-swathed-in-velvet voice slowed her steps. Patience marked Gideon’s words as he explained the safest way to wield a hammer. Amazing how soothing and, yes, even pleasant, he could sound when he wasn’t defensive or tense or angry as he was around her.

      Edging to the doorway, she caught sight of man and boy crouched close together. Walt had a tight grip on the handle, a look of intense concentration on his face, lower lip tucked in tight. The cowboy’s capable-looking hands gently covered his, mimicking the movements.

      Oh, Walt. Evelyn’s throat constricted. Anyone could see he was soaking up the attention.

      She must’ve made a sound, because Gideon’s head whipped up, the force of his gray gaze slamming into her. While his voice and expression were easy, his eyes told a different story. Misery was reflected there. Desolation. Whatever had happened to this man had come close to destroying him, had robbed him of hope and life and trust.

      Blinking, he severed eye contact, then dipped his head. “Look who’s here.”

      Walt’s blinding grin sidetracked her train of thought. How long had it been since he’d been this animated? Silently animated, she amended, drawn farther into the sunny space. This time when Gideon looked at her, his eyes were clear of turmoil as they did a slow inspection of her hair, her clothing and her unlaced boots.

      Heat traveled to her cheeks. They were practically strangers, and here she was in her nightclothes, her hair arranged in a haphazard, sleep-tousled braid.

      Tightly bunching the material at her neck, she held out her hand to her son. “Let’s leave Mr. Thornton to his work, sweetheart.”

      This suggestion did not sit well with Walt, who jutted his chin at a stubborn angle.

      “I don’t mind if he stays a little longer,” Gideon said, surprising her. “We’re not quite finished with our lesson.”

      Finished or not, Evelyn had to stamp out the adoration taking root in Walt’s eyes. He could not be allowed to become attached to her family’s sworn enemy.

      “You’ll have to finish it later.”

      Pushing to his feet, Gideon approached, a defensive slope to his broad shoulders. “What’s the problem, Evelyn?” He spoke quietly. “Surely you don’t believe a few minutes in my company