Clara Bellamy knew something was wrong the moment Everett Callahan looked at her handwriting.
She had spent the entire walk north convincing herself the pie meant nothing.
A new neighbor had purchased the abandoned Harmon ranch. Bringing food was what decent neighbors did in Willow Creek, Montana. It was what her mother would have done, what Daniel would have insisted upon, and what Clara had watched women do for every newly arrived family since she was old enough to carry a flour sack.
Nothing romantic about it.
Nothing foolish.
Nothing dangerous.
Still, she had used the last six good apples from the cellar.
She had added cinnamon.
She had even opened the little paper packet of nutmeg she had been saving since Christmas.
That bothered her.
Nutmeg was not something a woman wasted on a meaningless pie.
Clara had nearly turned around twice during the mile-and-a-half walk.
Then she saw the Harmon place ahead of her, smoke curling from a chimney that had stood cold for nearly four years.
Someone had repaired the front railing.
Fresh-cut timber leaned beside the barn.
A large bay horse stood saddled near the porch.
The place no longer looked abandoned.
Clara climbed the steps and knocked.
Heavy footsteps came from inside.
The door opened.
And Clara forgot the polite sentence she had rehearsed.
The man standing there was taller than she expected.
Not absurdly tall, perhaps six feet two, but broad through the shoulders in the way of men who had spent their lives lifting saddles, hauling fence posts, and wrestling cattle instead of posing for photographs. His dark brown work shirt was open at the throat beneath worn leather suspenders, revealing skin browned by years outdoors. Tousled brown hair curled slightly around his ears, and rough stubble darkened a square jaw that would have looked severe if not for his eyes.
Gray.
Clara noticed them immediately.
Tired gray eyes.
Watchful.
Familiar somehow, though she knew that was impossible.
He looked at her.
Then the pie.
Then back at her.
Clara cleared her throat.
“You must be Mr. Callahan.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re here to collect money.”
Clara glanced down at the pie.
“Do bill collectors usually bring cinnamon?”
His mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
“Not the ones I’ve met.”
She held the pie toward him.
“I’m Clara Bellamy. South road.”
“I know where the south road is.”
“That wasn’t the impressive part of my introduction.”
There.
A smile.
Small.
Unexpectedly handsome.
Clara immediately disliked herself for noticing.
She extended the pie.
“I thought you might not have a proper kitchen set up yet.”
“I have a kitchen.”
“That was optimism on my part.”
Everett accepted the pie.
A folded note was tucked beneath the twine Clara had tied around the cloth.
He reached for it.
Clara nearly told him not to bother.
The note contained nothing important.
From your neighbor to the south. Hope you're settling in all right. Clara Bellamy.
That was all.
Everett unfolded it.
His face changed.
The transformation was so complete Clara felt cold.
Color left his cheeks.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
His eyes moved over the handwriting once.
Twice.
Then slowly lifted toward her.
“Did you write this?”
Clara frowned.
“Of course.”
Everett stared.
“What?”
He looked at the note again.
“Nothing.”
“That is clearly not nothing.”
He swallowed.
“You wrote it yourself?”
Clara's confusion turned to irritation.
“Mr. Callahan, if you dislike my handwriting, I promise the pie tastes better.”
“No.”
His voice came too quickly.
“No, I…”
He stopped.
Clara watched him carefully.
Everett looked at her as though he had seen a ghost walk through the door.
Then something softer entered his face.
Something that frightened her more than surprise.
Recognition.
“Everett Callahan,” he said quietly.
“You already told me.”
“I know.”
“All right.”
“Call me Everett.”
She hesitated.
“All right. Everett.”
He still held the note.
Clara shifted toward the porch steps.
“Well, welcome to Willow Creek.”
“Would you stay?”
She stopped.
“For what?”
“Coffee.”
Clara looked past him into the cabin.
There were rules widows learned to follow.
Most were foolish.
Some existed because Willow Creek could turn ten minutes on a man's porch into a wedding announcement by supper.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“You look as though you’ve just received news of a death.”
Everett almost laughed.
“Quite the opposite.”
That answer unsettled her.
Clara looked again at those gray eyes.
Something about them tugged at a memory.
Not a face.
Words.
She could not explain it.
“All right.”
Everett stepped aside.
“Coffee.”
The Harmon house was warmer than Clara expected.
Most of the furniture had been covered in dust sheets when the old family left. Everett had removed them and arranged only what he needed. A table. Two chairs. A trunk. A rifle above the mantel. Three books stacked near the stove.
No woman's belongings.
No family photographs.
No decorative nonsense.
It looked temporary.
Then Clara noticed something else.
A wooden box sat on a shelf beside the bedchamber doorway.
Ordinary walnut.
Brass latch.
The kind of box people used for letters.
Her stomach moved strangely.
Everett followed her gaze.
Then positioned himself between her and the shelf without seeming to.
That made her more suspicious.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
He moved toward the stove.
Clara sat.
The pie rested between them.
For several minutes Everett busied himself with cups.
His hands were not steady.
Clara had known nervous men before.
Daniel had been nervous when he proposed.
Young farmhands became nervous when asking for wages.
Boys became nervous around pretty girls.
But Everett Callahan did not seem like a man accustomed to being nervous.
She watched him.
“You’ve seen my handwriting before.”
He stopped pouring.
The coffee nearly overflowed.
Everett set the pot down.
Clara leaned back.
“I knew it.”
He looked toward her.
“How?”
“Because nobody reacts to an ordinary welcome note as though it contains instructions from God.”
Everett sat across from her.
The table suddenly felt too small.
“Clara.”
Her chest tightened.
The way he said her name.
Not Mrs. Bellamy.
Not ma'am.
Clara.
Softly.
Carefully.
She had heard that tone before too.
Not aloud.
In letters.
She stared.
Everett saw realization trying to form and looked almost afraid.
Clara whispered:
“No.”
He said nothing.
Her heart began beating harder.
“No.”
Everett folded his hands.
Clara looked at his handwriting nowhere because there was nothing on the table written by him.
But memory flooded in anyway.
Gray eyes.
A cowboy who moved constantly.
Nevada.
Colorado.
Wyoming.
Texas.
Kansas.
A man who wrote about horses as though they were people and loneliness as though it were weather.
A man who had never given his full name.
Only one letter.
W.
Clara stood so quickly her chair scraped against the floor.
Everett rose too.
“No.”
“Clara.”
“Don’t.”
She pointed toward him.
“What is your middle name?”
Everett went still.
Clara’s pulse thundered.
“What is your middle name?”