MILY, HONEY—YOU SURE YOU’RE going to be all right here on your own? I don’t much cotton to leaving you.”

The stoop-shouldered giant with the grizzled face and stringy gray hair peered intently at the young woman beside him on the porch of the old log cabin. His seamed face was full of doubt, but in the gold afternoon sunlight that slanted down across the Rockies and made the sky glisten a hot and burnished blue, his niece looked as calm and unruffled as a mountain lake.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Jake,” she assured him. “I can take care of myself.”

Yet, even as she spoke the words, Emily Spoon felt an eerie prickle across her neck.

She couldn’t imagine why. She wasn’t afraid of this beautiful isolated patch of land deep in the heart of the Colorado foothills—or of the dark—or of being alone. She wasn’t afraid of anything—except losing her family again.

“And don’t forget,” she added as a gust of wind swept down from the mountains and blew a strand of midnight hair across her cheek. “I’m not all alone. There’s Joey.”

“Hmmmph. That little twig of a young’un? You know what I mean, girl.”

Her uncle’s voice was deep, scratchy, and gruff, well suited to the leathery and intimidating visage of his fifty-plus years, but Emily wasn’t fooled. She knew that despite his fierce appearance and his deep-set, squinting eyes that were the color of mud, when it came to his family, those he loved, Jake Spoon was gentle as a lamb.

Of course, there was no doubt that his years in prison had changed him, she reflected, a sadness touching her fine gray eyes as she studied the uncle who had raised her. Before Deputy Sheriff Clint Barclay had tracked him down and arrested him, he’d been larger than life and twice as bold, a man who always thirsted for adventure. He’d been in constant motion, craving hard riding and wild roaming, a good fight, and a mean chase. He’d been drawn to the lure of riches—ill-gotten riches—especially if they belonged to the wealthy and powerful.

But those seven years he’d spent behind bars—and all that had happened to his family while he was gone—had drained him of much of his vinegar and aged him in countless ways. There was a weariness now in the craggy lines of his face, a somber dead look to his eyes, and his smile, once big and crooked and easy, was now as rare as a gold nugget in a turnip patch.

Meeting his searching gaze, Emily felt a twinge of concern. These days Uncle Jake’s shoulders always looked as if they carried some invisible, impossibly heavy burden that was too much for him to bear.

And perhaps, she reflected, thinking of her Aunt Ida, they did.

“Of course I know what you mean,” she said with a quick smile, patting his arm. “But everything will be fine. So you just go on to Denver and buy the best horses you can find, and as much stock as we can afford. Joey and I will be perfectly all right until you and the boys get back.”

“Load up that rifle and keep it at the ready, you hear?”

“I will.”

“And if any strangers come by, shoot first and ask questions later.”

Emily eased him toward the porch steps. “Uncle Jake, I know how to take care of myself.”

At that he nodded curtly and turned his head away, but not before she saw the sheen of guilt in his eyes.

“Please, don’t look that way.” Emily took a deep breath. “The past is behind us now—all of us. The Spoon family is back together and everything is going to be just like it was.”

Well, not quite like it was. Aunt Ida is gone …

As if reading her thoughts, Jake swallowed, scowled, and pulled his hat down lower over his eyes. His shoulders drooping, he stepped down off the porch.

“You bet your boots it is, honey,” he said gruffly. “No need for you to worry about anything. Once we get back from Denver, me and the boys are sticking to this place. We’ll make a go of it—come hell or high water.”

A surge of happiness swept through her. He meant it, she was sure of it. Uncle Jake and the boys were really going straight.

We’re going to be a family again—together under one roof. And no one is going to take this ranch, this land away.

A breathless joy seized her. As the sun drifted lazily overhead toward the western sky, she watched her brother, Pete, and her towheaded cousin, Lester, lead their horses from the barn.

“Hey, Uncle Jake, let’s ride. There’s a poker game waiting for me in Denver—and a great big pot of cash with my name on it.” Pete waved his Stetson at Emily, his thin, handsome face alight with excitement. “So long, Sis! See you in a couple of days.”

Lester mounted his piebald and rode up to the porch. He was even larger than Uncle Jake, a mountain of a man, with enormous shoulders and a sweet, moon-shaped face covered with freckles. “Keep an eye on the barn door, will you, Emily? I didn’t get a chance yet to fix that bolt. Want me to bring you back any fancy doodads from Denver?”

“Just bring yourself back in one piece—all of you.” Emily fixed a meaningful gaze on each of them. Jake Spoon nodded and wheeled his horse toward the trail.

“All right, boys—let’s ride!”

As he dug in his heels, Pete gave a whoop loud enough to raise the dead, and all three of them thundered off, heading south across the valley.

For several moments, Emily stood at the broken rail of the porch, watching until the three riders disappeared over a ridge. As the dust dissipated in the still, crystalline air, she scanned the entire horizon, her gaze slow and careful. All was peaceful, quiet, and reassuringly empty but for the rolling foothills lush with new grass and buttercups, and the rising, pine-steeped mountains that towered in the distance.

She drew in a deep breath of pure mountain air and hugged herself.

This little cabin, her new home, was tucked neatly away on the banks of Stone Creek, some ten miles from the town of Lonesome, and there wasn’t another cabin or ranch house anywhere in this part of the valley. She loved the isolation of it, the sweep and beauty. After years of living in the noisy boardinghouse on Spring Street in Jefferson City, and working as a servant in the vast, cluttered, and demanding household of Mrs. Wainscott, this snug log cabin in Forlorn Valley was a slice of heaven.

Silence as thick as the rich forests that backed the cabin enveloped her, and there was no sign of any person or beast, unless one counted the hawks circling the far-off mountain peaks or the herd of elk crossing the plateau of rocks to the north.

So why do I have this prickly feeling on the back of my neck? Emily wondered uneasily. A feeling that there is someone—or something—out there. Someone coming …

She shivered, and glanced again at the burning blue sky. There were hours left until nightfall. She hoped by then she’d shake off this foolishness.

“Em-ly. Em-ly, where are you?”

At the sound of the small childish voice, she whirled and hurried back into the cabin.

“I’m here, Joey. It’s all right.” She smiled at the boy who stood by the hearth, staring at her with wide brown eyes that looked too big for his face. At six years old, Joey McCoy was small for his age, his face thin and pinched, his hair pale as wheat. His long-lashed brown eyes, so like his mother’s, were filled with a fear that never seemed to go away.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Emily said cheerfully, “because I’m planning to fix the two of us a truly delicious supper.”

The child merely stared at her.

“You remember my famous fried chicken and biscuits, don’t you?” She tilted her head to one side, her voice gentle. “Well, that’s not even the best part. For dessert, we’re going to have blueberry pie.” She crossed the room and knelt beside him, offering a smile she hoped was steady and reassuring. “Your mama’s recipe. That’s your favorite, isn’t it, Joey?”

He didn’t answer, only peered toward the window, his small hands clenched at his sides. “When are they coming back?” he asked.

“Uncle Jake and the boys? In a few days.”

“So … we have to stay here—all alone?” he quavered.

Emily touched the tip of his button nose. “The time will pass in a blink. We’re going to be mighty busy getting this place all fixed up.”

She watched Joey’s gaze shift to take in the small main room of the cabin, with its bare plank floor, sparse furnishings, and the unadorned brass-bowled oil lamps, then it returned, intent and serious, to her face.

“It’s nowhere near as nice as Mrs. Gale’s boarding-house, not yet,” Emily conceded with a grin. “But it will be, Joey—you’ll see.” Her smile widened and her eyes began to sparkle. “I’m going to sew some lovely white lace curtains for all the windows, just like Mrs. Gale had in her front parlor. And when I go into town, I’m buying a pretty rug—maybe two.”

“That sounds nice,” he mumbled. But the little boy was not to be distracted. His brown eyes fastened themselves on her face once more.

“Is that man—the bad man—going to find me?” he asked on a gulp.

“No, Joey, He is not.” Emily gathered his slight body into her arms. She wished she had the power to make his fear go away. His bones felt fragile as she held him close and sensed his trembling. “He isn’t going to find you, Joey, I promise. Not here—not anywhere. You’re safe,” she said firmly.

“What about Mama?”

“Your mother is safe too. I’m sure of it.” She drew back and smoothed a stray lock of pale hair from his eyes. “We tricked the bad man, remember? He can’t find either one of you. And soon your mama will come back here to fetch you to a brand-new home—and you’ll both be together. And no one will hurt either of you ever again.”

“Promise, Em-ly?”

“I promise.”

She felt his tense body relax ever so slightly. After giving him one last gentle squeeze, she rose to her feet. “You know, I promised your mother I’d take good care of you until she gets back, and that means I can’t let you waste away for lack of food, young man. Think how angry she’d be with me! So you need to promise me something, Joey.”

“What?”

“That you’ll clean your plate tonight, drink your milk, and eat a great big piece of blueberry pie. Maybe even two pieces. Think you can manage that?”

She hoped to coax a smile out of him, but Joey hadn’t smiled much since the day John Armstrong had knocked him across the room and given Lissa McCoy a black eye.

He nodded solemnly.

Emily’s heart squeezed tight with pity. If John Armstrong, Lissa’s ex-fiancé, ever did show up here, it would be the last mistake he ever made, she vowed silently.

Lissa had been her closest friend during the years that Uncle Jake was in prison and Pete and Lester were on the run. She and Aunt Ida had been unable to keep their Missouri farm going, and when they’d lost it, they’d moved into Mrs. Gale’s boardinghouse where Lissa McCoy, a young widow, worked, cooking and cleaning for Mrs. Gale, who had a bad hip and could barely make it up and down the stairs. Lissa and her son, Joey, shared a room behind the kitchen, and it was Lissa who had befriended Emily and her aunt, and helped Emily find a job as an upstairs maid in an elegant house on Adams Street. From the start, Emily had liked the quiet, cheerful young woman who worked tirelessly without complaint, and who clearly doted on her little boy. In fact, the only thing Emily hadn’t liked about Lissa was her beau—a moody, unpredictable man of uncertain temper who worked for the railroad. Emily hadn’t trusted John Armstrong, but Lissa had been blind to his true nature—until she became betrothed to him.

Then it was too late.

Now Lissa was on the run, terrified and fleeing from the very man she’d once thought to marry. And Emily was caring for Joey until Lissa had a chance to throw him off the trail, reach California, and try to secure a safe home for them both with her estranged grandparents.

Until Lissa returned for the boy, Emily had promised to keep him safe. And she would, no matter what. But making Joey feel safe was another matter.

However much she tried to convince the child that John Armstrong wasn’t about to track him from Jefferson City all the way to Lonesome, Colorado, Joey was too caught up in his fear to truly believe her. He refused to step outdoors for more than a moment or two at a time, and he then scurried back into the house as if pursued by wolves.

Who could blame him? Emily thought, her eyes darkening as she remembered the tears and sobs and screams of that awful night. Armstrong had beaten Lissa and terrorized Joey. And it would take time for the memories of fear and horror and violence to fade.

“I have an idea,” she said, taking the little boy by the hand. “Why don’t you play with the marbles Lester bought you while I sweep the floor? Then you can help me bake that pie.”

“I can help you sweep,” he offered. “I always used to help Mama.”

“Well, fine, then.” Emily beamed at him. “I’d love some help. Goodness knows, there’s enough to do around here. Another pair of hands will be most welcome.”

She sensed he just wanted to be close to her, that he felt safer that way, and she couldn’t blame him. The fear John Armstrong had created would not soon be forgotten.

But to her delight, Joey did eat a fair amount of the fried chicken and biscuits she served him later, and a large slice of pie as well. After she tucked him into his bunk in the back room he shared with Pete and Lester, she stood for a moment gazing down at the small boy with the too-serious and too-pale face.

“Maybe tomorrow you’d like to help me with the planting. I’m going to start a vegetable garden out back.”

“Out… back?”

“You can dig in the dirt and get as filthy as you want. Back on our farm, Pete always loved to do that. He’d find worms and bugs and … well, never mind about that—he always tried to put them in my hair.” She shuddered, then gave a laugh. “He was a terrible boy. Not nice and polite and helpful like you. Still… doesn’t it sound like fun—the digging part—not putting them in my hair,” she added with another laugh.

But Joey quickly shook his head no.

“I want to stay in here,” he whispered.

“All right.” Emily kissed his cheek. “Whatever you like. But if you change your mind, all that nice dirt and those bugs and worms will be waiting.”

He did almost grin then, his mouth trembling a little, and she saw a sudden, wistful look enter his eyes. “Night, Em-ly,” Joey said softly.

“Good night, Joey.”

When she was at the door, she heard his voice again, a barely audible whisper over the sudden gust of wind that rattled the shutters.

“Night, Mama,” Joey said into the darkness.

Emily’s throat tightened. She closed the door and tiptoed out to the main room of the cabin where a fire blazed in the hearth. She turned up the oil lamp, praying all the while that Lissa really was safe and on her way to California to find her family, praying that John Armstrong hadn’t found her … hadn’t…

She closed her eyes and gripped the back of the old pine rocker beside the sofa. Don’t even think about that. Armstrong is not going to catch Lissa and he isn’t going to kill her. Even though that’s what he threatened to do, every day since she discovered what kind of a man he really was and broke off their engagement.

A sudden gust of wind blew the shutters wide, and Emily started. She gave her head a shake at her own jumpiness and hurried to the window to secure the latch. Then, shivering a little from the chill sweeping down from the mountains, she crossed to the inlaid wood chest in the corner. Enough worrying, she told herself. You have work to do. Sewing those new lace curtains was first on her list. They’d brighten the cabin considerably—and the old place needed it.

The lid of the heavy chest squeaked as she lifted it. Once the chest had belonged to Aunt Ida—and to Aunt Ida’s mother in Boston before that. It was deep and finely carved, made of fine rich oak and inlaid with brass and silver. It now contained all of Emily’s precious fabrics: calico and gingham, muslin and wool, yards of linen, squares of sateen and even a bolt each of velvet and silk—as well as scraps, buttons, ribbons, needles, and pins.

It holds something else too, she thought, her heartbeat quickening.

It held her dreams.

All of Emily’s hopes and plans for the future revolved around the treasured and carefully accumulated contents of this old chest.

Kneeling down, she rummaged through bolts of gingham and yards of bright-colored calico, seeking the crisp white lace muslin she needed for the curtains, but when her gaze fell upon the cloud of dusky rose silk she’d purchased in Jefferson City the day she’d left, she couldn’t resist pausing and lifting it out into the light.

It was gorgeous—the most gorgeous fabric she’d ever seen. Easily as beautiful as anything owned by Mrs. Wainscott. It’s going to make a magnificent gown, Emily thought, her eyes glowing with anticipation.

She could envision the gown already, finished and perfect, with its elegant fitted sleeves and black satin bustle and gleaming jet buttons. And when the women of Lonesome saw it, she thought dreamily, they would all want a gown just as beautiful, as sophisticated, as irresistible …

I hope.

A flicker of exhilaration ran through Emily as she stroked a finger along the silk, the dusky rose shade gleaming richly in the glow of lamplight. Unfortunately, the gown would have to wait, and so would her dreams. But not for long, she promised herself. Only until she’d made the cabin cozy and comfortable for all of them.

Because no matter what it took she was going to make a success of her dressmaking business. She would make certain that whatever happened with this ranch, whether Uncle Jake and the boys succeeded in making it profitable or if they failed, she was going to earn enough money on her own to support all of them. No one would ever have the means or the power to take everything away from them again.

We’ll never lose this land like we lost the farm, she thought, clenching the soft silk in her fingers. And I’ll never find myself forced to work as a servant again for the likes of Mrs. Wainscott.

For a moment, memories of the Wainscott household flooded back. They were all unpleasant. She didn’t want to think about that place, or about her employer, Augusta Wainscott, the most demanding and twig-brained woman she’d ever met. Or about her aquiline-nosed son, Hobart, who had a proclivity for pinching servant girls every time he caught one coming around a corner.

She wanted to think about the new curtains, and the rug she would buy for the parlor floor, about filling the house with homey things, like embroidered cushions for the horsehair sofa and for every chair, and pretty gold-framed watercolors to brighten the walls. She wanted to think about a spanking-new stove, and matching china plates and cups, and perhaps even a small pianoforte like the one in Mrs. Wainscott’s music room …

She froze as she heard a noise from outside.

A small noise.

Like a twig crackling, Emily thought. Or perhaps just the wind. But that chill prickled down her neck again, and she drew in her breath.

She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the rifle down from the shelf. Swiftly, she checked the chamber for bullets, then paused and listened again.

Silence.

There was no one there.

Emily waited a bit longer, wishing she could stay put inside the cabin. These log walls were old, but they were thick. They held safety, comfort. Warmth and light. But she had to check, had to be sure. She’d never fall asleep tonight if she didn’t know for certain.

Swallowing down the acid taste of fear, she forced herself to walk to the front door. She eased it open, wincing as it squeaked. Her finger curled around the trigger as she stepped out into the cool darkness, the deep shadows lightened only by a fuzzy half-moon and a sprinkling of dazzling white stars.

It was only a matter of seconds before her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she did a quick scan of the yard and the trees and the ridge beyond. No sign of any horses, of any movement at all.

She turned toward the dilapidated barn and the corrals with their broken posts and saw the barn door ajar, swinging wide in the wind.

The barn door. Lester had warned her about that.

She shook her head. So much for noises in the night.

She started toward it, relief flooding her.

And that’s when someone lunged at her from behind, wrenched the rifle away as though it were a toy, and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“If you scream, lady, someone’s going to die.” The low, hard voice growled in her ear. Powerful arms encircled her. Imprisoned her, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. “Now answer me and make it fast. Where are the others?”