Chapter One

      Smoke River, Oregon

      Cord dismounted and reached to open the iron gate, then shook his head in disbelief and patted his horse’s neck. “Just take a look at that, Sally-girl. Only thing holding that gate up is rust.” He laid his palm against the top and gave a little push. The decrepit gate swung partway open, hung there for a few seconds and toppled onto the ground.

      He narrowed his eyes and studied it more closely. The split-rail fence looked like it was held together with spit, and there was no cattle guard. Man, this place needed more than a hired man. It needed a whole battalion of them.

      A rickety-looking barn that had once been painted red stood off to one side of the dingy farmhouse, and the front yard was full of busily scratching chickens.

      “Come on, Sally.” He grasped the bridle and tugged his mare forward. The only thing that looked even half-alive was the apple orchard he’d seen when he rode in, the frothy white blossoms clinging to the branches like soft puffs of new snow. Even from here he could hear the buzzing of thousands of bees.

      But that was the only sign of life. He tied the bay mare to a spindly lilac bush and stepped up onto the porch. His boot punched clear through the rotting middle step. The front door stood open, but he couldn’t see through the dirty, spiderwebby screen. He rapped on the frame and watched flakes of rust sift onto his bare wrist.

      “Just a moment,” a voice called. A long minute passed, during which the only sound was the hum of bees and Sally’s whicker. Finally a blurry shape appeared behind the screen.

      “Yes?” The voice sounded suspicious.

      “Name’s Cordell Winterman, ma’am. I understand you’re looking for a hired man?”

      “Oh. Well, yes, I guess I am.”

      “You don’t sound too sure about it.” He dug the scrap of newsprint out of his shirt pocket. “You put this ad in the newspaper, didn’t you? ‘Wanted—hired man for farm and apple orchard.’” He pressed it up against the screen.

      “Ah,” she said after a pause. “Yes, I did advertise for a hired man. Are you interested?”

      Cord swallowed hard. Hell, yes, he was interested! He hadn’t eaten in three days, and he was out of money and out of sorts. “Sure, I’m interested, ma’am.”

      “Why?” she asked bluntly.

      Cord blinked. “Why? Well, I could give you a lot of palaver about wanting to help out because I like farming, but that’d be just fancy words. The truth is I’m broke and I’m hungry.”

      “Oh,” she said again. And then nothing more.

      “Ma’am?” he prompted.

      The door latch snapped and the screen swung open. “You’d better come in, Mr. Winterman.”

      The minute he stepped into the threadbare parlor an enticing smell hit him and his belly rumbled. Roast chicken, he guessed. Right about now it didn’t matter; he’d eat roast anything. He hung his battered hat on the hook by the door and followed her to the kitchen, where he watched her shove a pan of biscuits into the oven, then turn to face him.

      For a moment he forgot to breathe. A pair of wide gray eyes surveyed him from under dark brows. Soft-looking eyes, and tired. Her thick chestnut hair was caught at her nape in a scraggly-looking bun. A blue-checked apron cinched the waist of her faded green dress, and from under the hem peeked ten perfect bare toes.

      But the most surprising thing wasn’t those bare toes. It was her face, heart-shaped and chalk white. She’d be beautiful if she wasn’t so pale. Jumping jenny, she was beautiful anyway. He couldn’t take his eyes off those pale cheeks; you’d think out here on a farm in the middle of Oregon she’d at least be a bit sunburned. Or freckled. Instead, her skin looked smooth as cream.

      She gestured at the round wooden table in the kitchen and pointed to a straight-backed chair, then walked to the staircase. “Daniel? Molly?”

      Even her raised voice was soft somehow. Refined.

      Feet thumped down the stairs and she turned back to the stove while he pulled out the chair she indicated as a shaggy-haired boy of about nine and a small blonde girl some years younger clattered into the kitchen.

      “Have you washed up?” the woman asked.

      “Aw, Ma,” the boy whined, “do I hafta?”

      She pointed to the sink, and both children groaned. “Quickly, now. We have a guest. This is Mr. Winterman.”

      They edged past him to pump water into the sink.

      “Hullo,” the boy said over his shoulder.

      “H’lo,” his sister echoed. “I betcha you haven’t washed up.”

      Cord chuckled. “Well, no, I haven’t.” He rose and accepted the bar of yellow soap from Molly’s small fingers and pumped water over his calloused hands.

      “Set the table, children,” their mother ordered. All of a sudden he realized he didn’t know her name.

      The boy, Daniel, slapped four blue china plates onto the table, followed by Molly, who pushed forks and spoons into place. Then four blue gingham napkins appeared.

      Cord settled into his chair and watched the children scramble into their seats, fold their hands and sit at attention while their mother brought a platter of fried chicken and a bowl of biscuits. Finally, she set a mason jar of apple blossoms in the center of the table.

      Cord’s stomach rumbled and Molly giggled. “You must be hungry, huh, mister?”

      “Yeah, I sure am.”

      “Molly,” her mother admonished. “That is not a polite question.”

      “I don’t mind, Mrs....?”

      “Malloy,” she supplied. She perched on the edge of the empty chair and pushed the platter of chicken toward him. “Eleanor Malloy.”

      She