Her father was at peace, as well. Lily took comfort in knowing he’d been reunited with her mother and brother. She’d always sensed she was a poor substitute for the people he’d lost.
“Miss Lily,” Peter began. “Do you have a husband?”
“’Course she doesn’t.” Sam huffed. “Otherwise she’d be a missus.”
“I don’t have a husband or a beau,” Lily said lightly.
Over the years she’d occasionally engaged in light flirtations with gentlemen passing through the boardinghouse, but she’d never been tempted by anything more. She neither felt nor inspired fervent love, nor was she particularly interested in the experience. She simply wanted a safe place to call home each night. Nothing more, nothing less.
Her father had chosen an early grave rather than life without his wife and son. Even in death Benjamin had inspired more devotion than Lily. She’d survived the pain, but her heart had turned brittle and fragile. From that moment on, she’d protected her embattled emotions with militant fervor. She’d erected a stronghold around her heart and sealed the entrances.
There was no love without loss, there was no joy without sorrow, and there was no reward without sacrifice. She’d simply chosen to forgo the nonsense. Happy endings only existed in fairy tales, and hoping for something different was a sure path to misery.
She was a practical person who sought practical solutions. She’d certainly never known love to be the practical solution.
Taking a fortifying breath, she inhaled the chill air into her lungs. “We’re obviously not going to find your grandfather sitting out here in the cold.”
She tightened her grip on Peter’s mitten-clad fingers, and they marched across the street. Sam trailed behind them. They skirted past a wagon hitched with two enormous draft horses snorting vapor into the glacial air.
“Aw, shucks,” Peter said. “I was hoping we’d see a showdown.” His shoulders sagged, then perked up when he realized their path led them directly before the suspected gunfighter. He tugged her down to his eye level and spoke in her ear. “How many men do you think he’s killed?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. He’s not my concern. You are.” Lily was made of sterner stuff than this cowardly hesitation. She wasn’t letting some ruffian force her to sit in the cold. “Your grandfather probably lost track of time. Maybe he’s even waiting for us in the restaurant.”
Living in St. Joseph had made her soft. She was being ridiculous. Not even the most villainous outlaw threatened women and children in broad daylight.
Despite that bracing thought, her step faltered on the second riser leading to the raised boardwalk. She sucked in another restorative breath and squared her shoulders. Just to be safe, she tucked Peter behind her as she halted before the gun-toting man.
He didn’t rouse.
Lily cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir. I need to p-pass.”
Hesitating, she opened and closed her mouth a few times like a voiceless marionette. With his head tipped forward, the gunfighter’s hat shaded his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? What if she startled him and he drew his gun on her?
The outlaw stirred.
She scrambled back and bumped into Peter.
With chilling deliberation one boot lowered. Her heart clattered against her ribs. The outlaw’s heel thumped against the boardwalk. As the second boot dropped, Lily muffled a yelp. She couldn’t see his eyes or gauge his intent. When the front two legs of the chair hit the ground, a hollow thud sounded.
Her temporary bravado deserted her. Leaning slightly to one side, she searched the street for a sign indicating the sheriff’s office. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier? The sheriff’s office was a much more practical place to start.
The outlaw unfolded from his chair and rose to his full, dizzying height. Holding her ground, Lily swallowed hard. She tipped back her head and glimpsed his face. Her breath caught in her throat. There was nothing forgiving about this man.
“Wow!” Peter exclaimed. “You’re tall.”
“Shush,” Lily ordered. “It’s not polite to comment on someone’s appearance.”
Even if the observation was accurate. Especially if the observation was accurate.
The man crossed his arms over his chest and squinted down at her.
She held her ground. “Isn’t it a bit inhospitable for sitting outside?”
“I like the view.”
She glanced in the direction he’d been facing and noted the shuttered windows and chipped paint facade of a barbershop.
“Lovely.”
He brought to mind the outlaw from the dime novel she’d borrowed from Peter the previous evening when she couldn’t sleep. Except this gentleman was taller and more broadly built than the cowboy on the book cover. He was unshaven, with a shaggy mop of whiskers covering his chin. The coffee-colored hair hanging beneath his hat touched his shoulders. His eyes were dark, as well. Dilated against the overcast sky, his pupils nearly blotted out the rich, bronzed hue. Though his general build was pleasing, tall and lean, he had the look of a fur trapper who’d been too long without company in the wilderness.
Despite his unshorn appearance, his dark wool coat and canvas trousers were clean and well-kept. He certainly didn’t smell like the fur trapper who’d stayed overnight at the boardinghouse. She’d spent two days scrubbing the rank odor from the bedding. This gentleman had a crisp, masculine scent that hinted of leather, wool and something else. She inhaled deeply and caught the pungent snap of gunpowder.
The realization brought her up short. This wasn’t an ordinary chap.
“Well, um.” She searched for an innocuous comment. His implacable stance sent a frosty draft through her that had nothing to do with the winter wind. “Your town is quite pleasant.”
“It’s not my town.”
His expression was strangely taut, as though he was sizing her up. For a coffin. She quickly squashed the thought. Her imagination was running away with her. After three days of nonstop travel, two by train and one by stage, an aching fatigue gripped her. All of the dime novels and newspaper serials she’d read along with the siblings’ ghoulish yarns had infected her thoughts.
Peter snuck a peek around her hip and she urged him back once more. The gunfighter raised his eyebrows. His continued silence left her unnerved.
Peter muttered something. Lily gave his hand a warning squeeze. The boy twisted from her restraint.
“Are you an outlaw, mister?” he demanded. “Is your face on one of them wanted posters?”
“Peter!” Lily splayed her arms. The slice of toast she’d managed to choke down that morning lurched in her stomach. “Children have such vivid imaginations.”
The outlaw squinted. “What’s your business here, miss?”
“My b-business?”
What was wrong with her? Her lips weren’t working properly in the cold.
“Why are you in Frozen Oaks?”
The horizon wavered, and stars twinkled around the edges of her vision. She swayed on her feet. The gunfighter took her elbow and she recoiled from his touch. Something flickered in his expression. A hint of regret that gave her pause.
Sam tugged on her sleeve. “You don’t look so good, Miss Lily.”
“He’s right,” Peter solemnly agreed. “You’re as white as chalk.”
The gunfighter’s face swam before her, and her ears buzzed.
“I’m