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  “Tug!” Leah’s voice was severe and laced with horror. “Apologize this instant!”

  Mr. Holloway turned in their direction, catching Tug’s eye. To Tug, anyone wearing a wide-brimmed hat, worn-out boots, noisy spurs, and a holstered gun was a cowboy. Mr. Holloway met all the criteria, and therefore gained Tug’s full attention.

  “Sorry,” Tug mumbled.

  Glancing in Mr. Holloway’s direction, Leah noticed he’d returned to staring out the window as if nothing had happened. Some people weren’t fond of children, and she sensed Mr. Holloway was not, or else he would have written off Tug’s prank with a smile. At the very least, an irritated smile. Instead, he’d glowered. At her.

  She’d thought they’d had a favorable start when he’d teased her about the ink on her cheek. Flirtatious remarks from Mr. Quigley and Mr. Winterowd had never caused a tingling sense of excitement to spring to life in her. The experience had been an awakening one. Her reaction to Mr. Holloway had been purely physical. That had never happened to her before. Though Frederick hadn’t lacked in looks, she’d been attracted to the writer before the man.

  Mr. Holloway’s lean fingers gripped the circumference of a cola bottle, and she recalled their introduction. Though the contact had been brief, she hadn’t anticipated his hand feeling so warm and gentle. His knuckles were thick with calluses on the joints and roughening his palm. A hand like that had to have been beaten into such a condition by years of demanding physical use. She wondered what he’d been doing for a living. She’d never known cowboy work to add such bulk on a body. Wranglers around here were lanky and nimble. Mr. Holloway was a big man and a good head taller than her, which was rare. She was used to trading gazes with most men at eye level, with some exceptions, of which Marshal Scudder was one.

  Mr. Holloway’s upper body filled out his duster, his muscles rivaling those of the prizefighters that had once come through Eternity with a touring show. His powerful shoulders were wide enough to be a boxer’s, wider than anyone’s she knew. His neck was thick, and his face hard-featured. At present, she was granted a view of his profile, which was rugged and somber. He had an appearance that she couldn’t exactly say was classically handsome, yet there was an appealing something about him.

  Afternoon sunlight streamed in from the window behind him, giving an auburn tint to his dark brown hair. He took a drink of his cola, licking his lips and drawing her attention to the lower half of his face. His mouth was full, its shape pleasant and making her aware that a long time had passed since she’d been kissed. On that subject, she reflected a few seconds, then quickly shoved it out of her head. There was a slight bump on Mr. Holloway’s nose, as if the bridge had been broken a time or two.

  “What can I get for you, Mrs. Kirkland?” Leo had come to the table and stood by, ready to take their order. Hearing him call her Mrs. Kirkland, as opposed to Leah, sounded funny. But Leo had insisted that in mixed company they retain an air of formality. She supposed he was right. Having a man as her closest friend did leave open the door to gossip and rumors. Oh, she was friendly with women, but most didn’t share her interests. Trude Barlow, the wife of the Eternity Tribune’s former editor, had moved to Iowa last year with her husband, leaving Leah with no one in particular to converse to about photography. Now Delmar Sheesley was the newspaper’s editor in chief, and he didn’t care one iota about the shading and lines in the photos she gave him, just that he could print the halftones clearly and they didn’t cost him more than fifteen cents apiece. Leo was the only person who recognized her creativity and would listen politely about the pros and cons of certain developing fluids and the like.

  After a hasty glance at the menu she knew by heart, Leah said, “I think I’d like the chicken foo-yung. Rosalure?”

  Rosalure added, “I’ll have the same.”

  Leo gazed at Tug. “The usual for you, pardner?”

  Tug propped his chin on his fists again and nodded.

  “Very good. Two chicken foo-yungs and one spreadable American Clubhouse cheese sandwich on white bread.”

  Then Leo went to Mr. Holloway’s table and they conversed in low tones before Leo left for the kitchen. Tug’s gaze went with Leo, then back to Mr. Holloway as he sized him up from his hat to his boots.

  “Momma?”

  “Yes, Rosalure?”

  “I asked Nanna to make my birthday cake for me. I hope you aren’t mad.”

  It was no secret Leah couldn’t hold a candle to Geneva’s cooking and baking—nor anyone else’s. Her mother hadn’t been handy in the kitchen and had never showed Leah how to manage one either. She could make passable meals, but for the most part they ate at the Happy City or at her inlaw’s home. “No, Rosalure, I’m not mad. What kind did you ask for?”

  “French cream with white icing and pink flowers.”

  From prior years, Leah knew Geneva would outdo herself and make Leah very much aware of how simple it all was. And that anyone could do it. Well, Leah wasn’t anyone, and she couldn’t make a French cream cake with white icing and pink flowers. Even if she had the recipe, nothing ever turned out the way it was supposed to, so she’d given up trying years ago.

  Tug squirmed in his chair, absently kicking one of the table legs.

  “Oh, and Momma?” Rosalure said.

  “Hmm?”

  “I wanted to make the party favors I saw in Nanna’s Good Housekeeping magazine. We’d need some lace and ribbon. And we could hand-cut the invitations, but we’ll have to make sure they’re delivered in time. The twenty-eighth is almost here.”

  The twenty-eighth was indeed approaching, and Leah should have had invitations already sent out. She wasn’t at all ready to host a party. That meant she’d have to organize her home and really tidy it up. Geneva would be snooping in every cranny, just waiting for the opportunity to say something about lint or dust.

  Mr. Holloway shifted his legs, the star-shaped rowels of his spurs making a metal clinking sound and attracting her attention to him. His posture was relaxed, but he tapped his blunt fingertips on the table. She wondered if he was bored or preoccupied by the prospect of having to find a job if he wanted to stay in town. A dishwasher certainly wasn’t high on the pole of prestige, but Leo would be a fair boss.

  Promptly at five-fifteen, Netha and Wilene Clinkingbeard, twin spinster sisters who were a year younger than Leah, arrived at the Happy City just like they did every Saturday night. They were as thin as broom handles, with pale complexions and hair that matched the orange of early carrots. Not strong on looks, they were, however, quite popular at the First Presbyterian Church for their perfect harmonizing while singing hymns.

  After their obligatory hello at Leah’s table, Leo showed them to their usual spot at one of the front windows. This evening, the two sisters nearly crashed into one another to get a better look at Mr. Holloway, whose larger than life presence filled the room. He sat one table behind them. Netha, who always took the southern side of the table, went for the northern chair so she’d have an unobstructed view of Mr. Holloway, only Wilene had already dropped her hand on the chair’s back. There was an awkward moment when the sisters fought over that single chair before Netha conceded her loss and went to her regular place at the table.

  Wilene blushed the color of geraniums as she dropped her napkin on her lap. Ruggedly handsome men didn’t show up in the Happy City too often. Not that Leo’s restaurant wasn’t a fine dining establishment. But most of the cowboys in Eternity preferred a thick-cut chop or steak down at the Coffeepot Cafe or the Beaver’s Corner Saloon.

  Leah thought the spectacle the sisters were creating was rather offensive. Fawning over Mr. Holloway, and his not even noticing that they were talking loudly about their primrose garden, was in poor taste. Leah could grow flowers, too, but she wasn’t broadcasting her talents in a voice for the entire restaurant to overhear.

  “Yen ching beef for two.” Leo repeated the sisters’ orders to them, then paused at Leah’s table to give Tug his glass of milk. “How’s t
he stomach, pardner?”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t look so green anymore.”

  “Reckon not,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on Mr. Holloway’s silver spurs.

  A handbell rang from the kitchen, signaling to Leo that another order was finished. “Bet it’s yours,” Leo said, then parted the bamboo curtain to retrieve the hot plates from his nephew, Tu Yan.

  Leah’s gaze had followed Leo’s departure, and she began speaking while facing forward. “Tug, I’d surely like it if you tried to eat all your cheese sandwich tonight. You need to eat something wholesome after all that candy . . .” Her words trailed as she eyed the empty seat across from her.

  “He’s over there, Momma,” Rosalure whispered, pointing under Mr. Holloway’s table.

  Tug had crawled beneath the table—no minor feat considering the butts of his authentic Buffalo Bill Octagon-wood-and-rubber six-shooter defenders were protruding from holsters that sagged at his Wild West woolly chapwearing hips. In tight spaces, some part of his outfit usually got hung up on something, and disaster struck.

  Mortified, Leah held her breath, uncertain how to retrieve her son without Mr. Holloway noticing. Thankfully, his scrutiny remained on Main Street.

  Dropping her napkin as if by accident, Leah bent to reach it and waved her hand at Tug. “Owen Edwin,” she said in a low tone and purposefully addressed him with his given name. “You come out from there right now.”

  He ignored her, one pudgy finger inching forward to touch the shining spur at the back of Mr. Holloway’s heel.

  The Clinkingbeard sisters craned their necks to get an eyeful. Leah, still leaning over the floor, casually smiled as if nothing was wrong.

  When Tug spun the rowel, Mr. Holloway brought his feet in and jerked his gaze from the window, then lifted the tablecloth.

  “Mister, are these Eureka spurs?” Tug asked, as if it were a common occurrence for a boy to sit at the boots of a diner.

  Mr. Holloway returned, “Where did you come from?”

  Wordlessly, Tug pointed in Leah’s general direction. She straightened and plastered a smile on her face. Mr. Holloway’s gaze moved to meet hers. The unfathomable depths of his blue eyes tore right through her, making her heart pound against her ribs. She hadn’t noticed the intensity of the color before, nor the brooding line of his brows that suggested a stubborn streak.

  “My son is curious about your spurs,” she said, trying to cover her incredible embarrassment by making light of Tug’s being beneath the table. “Are those Yippee spurs?”

  “Eureka,” he corrected.

  Leah wanted to crawl beneath the table herself. “Of course.”

  “Gee, Momma, Yippee spurs are kid toys.” He gave her an accusatory glare. “You won’t let me have a pair because you said I’ll hurt myself with them.”

  She knew the name had sounded familiar.

  After jingling the rowel of Mr. Holloway’s spur, Tug shimmied out from the floor to stand directly in front of him. “I’ll bet you can really ride ’em, mister.”

  An irresistible grin dazzled against his tan skin. “I used to.”

  Aiming his finger at the enormous gun strapped to Mr. Holloway’s thigh, Tug asked, “Is that loaded? Have you ever shot anybody with it?”

  “Tug, really, Mr. Holloway doesn’t want to be bothered with your questions.” Leah rose quickly from her chair and went to Tug, laying her hands firmly on his shoulders in an effort to turn him around and march him back to the table.

  For a little guy, Tug could really dig his heels in. She couldn’t make him move. Quick on his feet, he ducked out from beneath her hands. “Is that a genuine Stetson, mister? Can I try it on?”

  Before Mr. Holloway could reply, Tug had snatched the felt hat from the tabletop and plopped it on his unruly hair. The crown slipped down his face, and he pushed the sweat-stained brim back. He took on a rough-and-ready stance, chest laid back, hips thrust forward. “There he is,” Tug declared. “Ol’ Sidewinder in the middle of the street!” Then he fast-drew one of his rubber guns and proceeded to “shoot” up the window.

  Mr. Holloway’s laughter was a full-hearted sound. Hesitantly, Leah joined him, but as soon as he heard her, his voice went cold. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Tug, give Mr. Holloway back his hat,” Leah said evenly, not letting Mr. Holloway’s hooded eyes get the best of her.

  Just then, Leo came up to them. “Your supper is on the table, Mrs. Kirkland.”

  Leah glanced at Rosalure, who was eating and pretending as if Tug wasn’t causing trouble.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wang,” Leah replied properly. Then to Tug, “You quit this fooling around.” She hoped her threat sounded as if she meant it. “Our supper is going to get cold.”

  “I want my Roughrider Roy hat,” he complained. “I’m a sissy cowboy without it.”

  The Clinkingbeard sisters had gone from sly peeks to bold stares at the commotion Tug was causing. Leah was furious with herself for allowing the situation to get out of hand. She was a confident and a capable businesswoman, but when it came to Tug, she second-guessed her instincts and never was sure which way to turn.

  “Seeing all the fuss he’s making,” Mr. Holloway said, “I don’t care if he wears the hat while he eats. So long as I get it back when he’s done. Which makes me somewhat skeptical, given the boy’s name.”

  Leah blushed profusely. Tug’s nickname suited him. Ever since he’d been a baby, once he got something he wanted, she’d had to tug it out of his grasp. “I really don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. Holloway. Tug should give you the hat right now.”

  “I’m not wearing it at the moment, so I don’t need it.”

  The ears on the Clinkingbeard sisters suddenly appeared two sizes larger. If they hadn’t been listening in, Leah would have insisted Tug return the hat. But the fact that there was an audience made her want to smooth things over as quietly and as quickly as possible.

  “Very well. Tug, you may wear the hat while you are eating. What do you say to Mr. Holloway?”

  “Thanks, mister.”

  Leah returned to her table with heat on her cheeks. She couldn’t eat, and absently stirred her food around the plate with the tines of her fork. For long minutes, she didn’t dare look in Mr. Holloway’s direction. When she finally mustered the nerve, she observed him taking a sip of his cola. Bubbles rose to the upended bottom of the bottle. She grew fascinated by the way he swallowed with long gulps that made his Adam’s apple softly bob.

  He caught her staring, and she swiftly looked away. But not before she felt the full impact of the speculative appraisal he’d given her.

  Toying with a sliver of chicken, Leah recanted her earlier thought about Mr. Holloway. It wasn’t children he disliked. It was her.

  * * *

  Leah’s eyes on Wyatt disturbed him, and mixed feelings surged through his thoughts. He found her undeniably attractive. The strength in her slender carriage and her self-assured walk didn’t lessen her femininity. The aggressive yet soft touch of her hand ignited unbridled images in his head. He’d been without a woman for so long that his body’s response would have been the same no matter what curvy thing had approached Scudder. His bad luck she was a photographer. Someone he hadn’t wanted to encounter.

  His initial reaction after realizing what she did for a living had been to refrain from noticing both her and her boy. But he’d been hard-pressed not to bust a gut when the kid hurled a pebble of candle wax at him. The antic reminded Wyatt of something he would have done as a kid.

  Wyatt had missed being around children. He’d always liked them. Having five younger siblings, he’d grown up with a sister and two brothers tagging after him. They’d done their share of troublemaking. Their mother had given them what for when they’d turned muskmelon rinds inside out, strapped them onto their feet, and skated around the floor, smearing juice and pulp all over the place.

  Gazing at Tug, Wyatt saw a bygone reflection of himself. Though he hadn�
�t had a store-bought toy gun, he’d had a wooden one his father had carved. He’d been encouraged to find his amusement in the hills and fields with Robert and Daniel, and Todd, when he could toddle along. The boys learned the wilder world of men at a young age by capturing ground squirrels, while Ardythe had been encouraged to stay behind and take her domestic play outdoors by setting up imaginary households on the porch. With sad blue eyes, she’d watch the brothers run off, and Wyatt saw that she was yearning to come after them but minded her ma out of respect.

  Wyatt had had a lot of time to think about the children he hoped to have. He’d come to the conclusion that whether he had girls or boys, he’d teach them lessons in life equally.

  Every man wanted a son, and Wyatt was no different. If he was lucky enough to have one by next year, he’d show his boy all there was about wrangling. How to wear his hat, how to ride, how to rope, and a million other things around the ranch. If he had a daughter, if she was interested, he’d set her up with a dependable and well-trained gelding and teach her how to herd the cattle.

  Wyatt’s mouth pulled into a grim line. The vision was well and good, but by the time a child could be outfitted with a horse and snug little saddle, Wyatt would be halfway into his forties. He’d be getting a damn late start on fatherhood.

  There was nothing more fleeting than years, and Wyatt had wasted too many of them. As soon as he got the money, he vowed, his life would change for the better.

  Wyatt stared at the supper plate Leo had left in front of him minutes before. Leo had talked him into a dish called trout with black bean sauce. Wyatt hadn’t had fish in nearly twenty years. He’d forgotten how it tasted. He knew too well the nothing-flavor of overboiled beef twice a day, with tough steak, hard potatoes, gravy, bread, and syrup for breakfast every morning. If he ever had another bad steak, he was going to puke.

  A hollow emptiness punched Wyatt’s gut as his stomach gnawed. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry. The endless fresh air and the arduous ride in the saddle getting his muscles used to the feel of a horse again had done him good.