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  “Why did you kiss me?” she asked, surprised by how cool and even her voice remained. The question had plagued her for days, had practically consumed her, yet she’d made it sound as if she was asking about the price of feed.

  His eyes met and held hers. Then, looking discomfited, he shrugged. “I can’t rightly say.”

  “You plan on doing it again?”

  His gaze shifted away from hers. “What makes you ask?”

  Wait a minute. She was the one asking the questions here. “Don’t answer my question with one of your own. That’s unfair.”

  “There are rules to this conversation?”

  “You just did it again,” she cried, exasperated.

  At that, Matt burst out laughing.

  Despite the seriousness of her concerns, Margaret laughed, too.

  “You’re fortunate you caught me. I was out on the range earlier, looking for stray cattle.”

  “We’ve had a lot of rain lately.” They both knew what that meant. The wet weather could bring about symptoms of bloat in the calves; they required careful watching.

  As it happened, Matt had brought a sick calf into the barn and before long, Margaret was down on her knees, checking him over.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  If Margaret knew anything, it was cattle. “I’d get the vet out here if you hope to save him.”

  Matt nodded gravely. “I already put in a call to Doc Lenz in Devils Lake, but he said there’s not much he could do that I haven’t already done.”

  Talking softly to the sick calf, Margaret stroked his sleek neck. Hardened rancher or not, she hated to see anything suffer. She comforted the calf as it lay dying, tears springing to her eyes. She continued to stroke the calf’s face long after it was gone. When she realized Matt was watching her, she got abruptly to her feet and glanced at her watch. “I’d better go home.”

  He stood, too. “I’ll walk you out.”

  They strolled silently back to her truck, and she wondered if he was as reluctant to let her go as she was to leave. “You never did answer my question,” she reminded him.

  He grinned and shook his head. “You’re right, I didn’t.”

  “It isn’t the proper thing for a woman to ask, is it?”

  He buried his hands deep in his coat pockets. “I don’t see why not. If you’d kissed me, I’d want to know why.”

  Really. Then perhaps she should do exactly that. Catching him by surprise, she reached for his collar, gripping it with both hands. Then, raising herself on her toes, she slanted her mouth over his, hungry to discover if a second kiss could possibly compare with the first.

  Quick as anything, Matt’s arms were around her waist, pulling her against him. He did it with such force that it drove the breath from her lungs. For one wild second, her eyes flew open. Matt quickly took charge of the kiss, seducing her with his lips, introducing her to his tongue and creating an ache in her that reached low into her belly. This was the kind of kiss that would make a woman want to lock the door.

  When he released her, it was all Margaret could do to breathe again.

  “I shocked you, didn’t I?” he said, brushing the hair from her face.

  Still breathless, she couldn’t answer him.

  “I figure you haven’t had much experience at this.”

  His comment irritated her. He seemed to be saying her lack of sexual finesse was obvious.

  “I…I should leave now,” she murmured, doing her best to sound mature and unaffected, even though her knees were shaking.

  “Feel free to stop by any time,” he said, opening the truck door.

  “By the same token,” she said, climbing inside, “feel free to shock me any time.”

  He was still laughing when he closed the door and she started the engine and drove off. He was laughing and Margaret was smiling. This could be the start of something good, a voice inside her seemed to whisper.

  The frantic hum of sewing machines filled the workshop at Sarah Urlacher’s quilt company. Three machines were in use nearly eight hours every day. Two girls cut pattern pieces while Sarah was busy with the phones. Orders continued to arrive and she was having trouble keeping up. Many nights she stayed late, dying the muslin, soaking the cloth in tea water and other natural concoctions made with lichen and berries and plants. She put in long hours, but she loved it with an intensity that was hard to explain. Quilting was her passion, and her love for it went into every quilt she sold.

  No one was more amazed by the almost overnight success of her business than Sarah herself. It’d started out mainly as a hobby, something to occupy her time and employ her talents. Then she’d won first prize at the state fair and sold the quilt for an astonishing five hundred dollars. Soon other sales trickled in. Enough that she’d eventually realized she needed to expand, to move her business out of her father’s house. That was when she created Buffalo Valley Quilts.

  Although it was a risk, a leap of faith, she’d rented space in one of the abandoned stores on Buffalo Valley’s main street. Having her own location with her business name painted on the window had brought her immense satisfaction—and pride. For the first time, she was doing something for herself. The success or failure of this venture rested squarely on her own shoulders. Everything else in her life had been controlled by circumstances, but this company was of her own making. And so was its success.

  To be fair, she credited Lindsay Sinclair with those initial sales. Two years earlier, Lindsay had moved to Buffalo Valley and accepted a teaching job. With her, Lindsay had brought hope and vision to the community.

  When Sarah started her company, Lindsay had contacted her uncle in Savannah about displaying the distinctive quilts in his upscale furniture store. The first had sold immediately, and everything since had been eagerly snapped up. Soon other retail outlets had approached her.

  Already she had a handful of full-time employees and she could use more. But luring women into town to work for her was complicated. Farm wives were often needed at home, and with no day care available in town…A temporary solution was to hire them to do piecework out of their homes, but Sarah didn’t feel that gave her the same quality control.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of the bell above the door. Hassie Knight walked in. The pharmacist visited often, usually without a specific reason; Sarah guessed she just liked seeing all the activity.

  “It does my heart good,” Hassie had told her once. “This town is coming back to life and it’s starting right here in this shop.” And then the older woman said something that brought a rush of pride to Sarah every time she thought about it. “I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own daughter.”

  “Afternoon, Hassie,” Sarah greeted her.

  “I brought you a chocolate soda,” the older woman said, handing her a tall metal container filled to the brim with ice cream and soda. “I’m betting you didn’t eat lunch again today.”

  Sarah hadn’t; she’d been too busy.

  “We can’t have you getting weak and fainting on us, now can we?”

  There was little likelihood of that happening, but Sarah wasn’t about to argue. Hassie made the best sodas she’d tasted anywhere. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how famished she was.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Hassie nodded, then left as abruptly as she’d come.

  Sarah stood by the window and watched her. Since her own mother’s death, she’d considered Hassie both advisor and friend. In Sarah’s opinion, Hassie Knight had held this town together. If not for her, the community would have shriveled up and died the way so many other prairie towns had in the last twenty years.

  Sarah’s gaze drifted toward her husband’s service station. It was difficult even now, three months after speaking their vows, to believe they were actually married. Unfortunately, the joy she felt was almost immediately squelched by regret at her daughter’s estrangement. For reasons no one fully understood, Calla disliked Dennis. When they’d anno
unced their engagement, Calla had run away, choosing instead to live with her father in Minneapolis.

  Sarah felt an oppressive sadness, a painful despair, whenever she thought about Calla. It was agonizing to see history repeat itself as she watched Calla make the same mistakes she had. Sarah felt so helpless. Nothing she’d said or done had brought Calla home. She shook off the memory; thinking about her daughter made it impossible to concentrate on work.

  At five o’clock, her employees packed up and headed home. Sarah stayed behind, catching up on some long-overdue paperwork. An hour after she closed, Dennis joined her.

  He walked into the back room, stood behind her, kissing her neck. “You ready to leave?”

  He smelled of gasoline and grease, and spicy aftershave. Sarah closed her eyes and enjoyed the loving feel of his arms around her.

  “I won’t be long. Did you go to the post office?”

  His hesitation told her he had.

  “There’s a letter from Calla,” he told her.

  Sarah’s heart flew into her throat. She’d been so anxious to get a response about Thanksgiving.

  “Open it later,” Dennis advised.

  Sarah whirled around, unable to believe he’d say such a thing. “Why?” He knew she’d been waiting for days to hear from her daughter.

  “What if she tells you she won’t come?” Dennis asked.

  “Then she won’t be here.” Sarah’s flippant reply suggested it didn’t matter one way or the other. In reality, it meant everything. She’d only spoken to Calla a few times in the past five months. Despite her best efforts, every conversation had left her feeling guilty, upset and depressed. If only she could get Calla away from Willie’s influence, talk to her, reason all this out.

  Thanksgiving would be perfect. Her father and her brother, Jeb, along with Maddy and the baby, would be joining them. Even Dennis’s parents were coming. A big family dinner, the kind they’d had when her mother was alive. Perhaps it was greedy of her, but Sarah wanted her daughter with them. Surrounded by family, Calla would surely feel the love everyone had for her, would surely realize how much they missed her. Realize how much Sarah needed her. Perhaps they’d even be able to break down the barriers and communicate as mother and daughter.

  “Give me the letter,” she told him, and held out her hand.

  “Sarah…”

  “Dennis, please.”

  His reluctance was obvious. She clutched the small manila envelope and was about to tear into it when she paused. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, her voice shaking. All at once she was afraid of what she’d find inside.

  “Open it,” Dennis said now. “You might as well. Get it over with.”

  He was as ambivalent as she was. Sarah sighed deeply. Confronting her fear was more difficult than she’d expected. She opened the envelope, reached inside and pulled out half the airline ticket.

  Sarah’s chest tightened and for a moment she could hardly breathe. Calla had torn the airline ticket in two and returned both halves.

  “No letter?” Dennis asked, sounding as discouraged as she felt.

  Sarah looked again and shook her head. “Why would she do something so cruel?” she asked.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Dennis said. “Let’s go home.”

  “I don’t know why she hates me so much,” Sarah whispered. “If only she’d talk to me. If only…”

  Four

  Pastor Larry Dawson and his family had lived in fifteen different states in the past forty-three years, but he’d never thought of anywhere but Buffalo Valley as home. This was where he’d been born, where he’d gone to school, where he’d buried his mother and three years later, his father. From the day he left for the seminary, he’d planned to return to his childhood home—only, he hadn’t expected that to take over forty years. He was near retirement age now, and it made sense that he pastor a church in the very town where he’d spent his youth. His life was about to come full circle.

  For a time, his return had looked doubtful. It seemed that despite all of Joshua McKenna’s and Hassie Knight’s efforts, Buffalo Valley was about to be snuffed out, like so many other small towns that dotted the Dakotas. Then, unexpectedly, the community had sprung back to life. Larry was thrilled and had managed to convince the church hierarchy to send him to Buffalo Valley.

  The only church available belonged to the Catholics. It’d been closed for a number of years, ever since Father McGrath, hampered by age and failing health, had retired. Despite circumstances, the elderly priest had continued to stop by every few weeks to celebrate Mass. Recently, however, Father McGrath had entered a retirement home in Minnesota and the Bishop was eager to sell the property. The Methodist Church had bought it.

  Soon after Larry had accepted the assignment, he’d found a nearby house to rent. The spare bedroom served as his office. The house was smaller than he would’ve liked, but it was fine for the time being. Fortunately his three daughters were grown and settled in careers and raising their own families. Unfortunately, they lived in three different states—Connecticut, Nebraska and Oregon.

  Larry’s first official duty had been to officiate at the funeral of Bernard Clemens. He remembered the rancher, but it’d been years since they’d last spoken. The funeral, sad as it was, had been an opportunity to become acquainted with the people in town, those he’d once known and the younger people, whose families he often remembered. Larry had spent a good part of the day meeting and greeting his new neighbors.

  In some ways, not much had changed in Buffalo Valley. When he’d left, there’d been a reserve toward strangers, a hesitancy. It remained in place to this day. The town…well, it looked better than he’d expected, but there was still much to be done. People were pleased with the most recent improvements and planning more. Then there was—

  “Lunch is ready,” Joyce called from the kitchen, breaking into his musings.

  He’d met Joyce while he was in the seminary. His wife had been raised in Boston, but over the years she’d come to love small-town life.

  “What are your plans for the afternoon?” she asked as she sat across the table from him. She’d prepared one of his favorites, a chicken salad made with cold noodles and tossed with a soy vinaigrette, but today he had virtually no appetite.

  “I thought I’d go over and visit Joshua.” A question about a couple he’d met at Bernard’s funeral had been bothering Larry and he could think of no one better to ask than his old friend. After barely touching his lunch, he wandered over to Joshua McKenna’s second-hand store. Joshua sold a little of everything. The sign in his window claimed there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, and Larry believed it.

  “Good to see you,” Joshua called out when the bell above the door announced Larry’s arrival.

  “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” Larry saw that Joshua was up to his elbows in grease, working on some kind of engine.

  “Trust me, I welcome the interruption.” Joshua reached for a wadded-up rag, tucked in his back hip pocket. “This,” he said, gently patting the huge metal contraption, “is the engine to Gage Sinclair’s tractor. Dennis had it two weeks and couldn’t get it running. He threw up his hands and asked me to give it a try.”

  Larry knew that low prices were killing many of the small farmers in the heartland. Farmers kept their equipment running as long as possible, and then eked out another twenty thousand miles.

  “Did you hear I was over at Buffalo Bob’s?” Larry said as Joshua studied the engine. “Went there a couple of weeks ago, after I met them at Bernard’s wake.” Bob had talked him into trying his karaoke machine. Larry had no singing voice whatsoever, but bolstered by Merrily, he’d fallen victim. He was fairly confident they wouldn’t invite him to sing again.

  “They have a little boy, don’t they?” Larry had noticed the child at the Clemens house but hadn’t seen him since.

  “His name’s Axel.”

  “Unusual name.”

  Joshua nodded and continued to inspect the engine. />
  “Haven’t seen him around much,” Larry said.

  “Seems to me Merrily said he’s got the chicken pox,” Joshua muttered.

  “Poor little boy.”

  “I’ve never seen a couple crazier about a kid,” Joshua said absentmindedly. He rubbed the side of his face, smearing a smudge of oil along his jaw.

  “Bob seems to be a good father,” Larry commented.

  “He is,” Joshua said. “Especially for being so new to it.”

  “Axel isn’t his child?” Larry suspected as much, but then, he suspected a lot more.

  “No. The boy belongs to Merrily,” he said, and reached inside the engine with a long-handled wrench. “No one realized she had a kid until she showed up with him one day.”

  Larry’s suspicions mounted. When he’d moved into the house, there’d been a pile of junk mail stacked in the post office box, waiting for him once he’d submitted his change-of-address information. Never one to toss a piece of paper without first looking at it, he’d come across some flyers, notifications of several missing and abducted children. The name Axel, being unusual, had stuck in his mind. Within a week he’d met Bob and Merrily and their boy…Axel.

  “Come to think of it, I never saw Merrily pregnant, either,” Joshua said. He twisted the wrench again and glanced up. “It used to be that Merrily would drift in and out of town. She’d stay with Buffalo Bob a few weeks, then disappear. He took her leaving real hard and never seemed to know when she’d be coming back.”

  “You never saw her pregnant?” Larry repeated.

  Joshua paused. “Funny, I never thought about it before, but no.”

  “She didn’t bring the boy with her on earlier visits?”

  Joshua shook his head. “No, not once.”

  “You’re sure the boy is hers?”

  His friend looked uncertain. “It’s clear he belongs to her,” he finally said. He held Larry’s eyes for an uncomfortably long moment. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

  Larry wasn’t sure this was the time or place to voice his suspicions. For many, he was a newcomer to the community; he had no intention of wading into an explosive situation without being sure of himself.