letter from Morley saying she’d gone ahead and married. What would have happened if those feelings had had air to breathe and room to grow? Would their love have thrived? Or would the stress of his profession have worn it thin until it finally frayed and died? Or worse—would it have put Elizabeth in harm’s way?

      He remembered the look on his mother’s face as she watched her husband die in front her, and he remembered feeling so helpless to stop any of it—his father’s death or his mother’s pain. He couldn’t knowingly put anyone else in that position, especially not someone he cared for. That seemed to him the opposite of love. The truth of it was, the only difference between then and now was that he was much better at his job. He had honed and perfected his skill at shooting until he never missed. He would get the draw so fast he usually didn’t have to shoot at all. After this job, Wells Fargo would have him moving on to do another one and then another.

      He hiked his hip on the porch railing and watched the town folk go about their lazy Sunday afternoon. Again, the thought struck him as it had the evening he’d entered town that the place was about the most serene he’d ever encountered. Two boys, one looking suspiciously like the little boy he’d seen that morning in the hotel hallway, stood at the end of the pier and threw stones into the water. They looked carefree, each one trying to outdo the other with the distance of their toss. Three fishermen sat nearby on barrels and talked in their native language—possibly Portuguese? Every once in a while they’d each take a draw on their pipes and blow puffs of white smoke over their heads. Down by the water on the small strip of sand, a little girl walked with her father. She had her pinafore gathered up into the shape of a bowl to carry her collection of seashells.

      Peaceful.

      He glanced once more at the mercantile. He could see why Elizabeth might like living here. He wondered what he’d say to her when he caught her alone. He wanted to find out what had happened—from her own mouth—since he’d last seen her. It was water under the bridge now, but still he was curious. The problem with asking questions is that turnabout was fair and she’d probably have some of her own for him that he didn’t want to answer.

      He could walk away. That would be the easiest route to take. Just get on his horse and ride out of town. Let Wells Fargo send somebody else.

      His gut rebelled at the thought. There wasn’t time. And besides, this was personal. He had to do this for Cranston and the Fursts. He was here to make things right and atone for his partner’s death. Which meant seeing that the thieves were behind bars for good or more preferably hanging from the highest tree.

      And yet he still could not shake the premonition that he was supposed to be here in La Playa, too. That he had unfinished business with Elizabeth. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes. It was the one thing he remembered liking the best about her—the way her pretty brown eyes sparkled when she was happy. He’d do just about anything to see her that way again.

      * * *

      In her living quarters over the store, Elizabeth paced the length of the room, her mind whirring with all that Terrance had revealed. This was serious. Somehow she had to find a solution. She didn’t want to leave La Playa. She’d grown up here and loved the town and the people.

      She tossed her Sunday gloves on her bureau, the action ruffling the most recent letter from Gemma. What a mocking salute to all their hard work. Four years ago when she had been in a fix with the mercantile, Gemma, with her quick, inquisitive mind, had helped get her through the worst of the situation, no thanks to Terrance or Preston or anyone. If only she were here now. It upset her all over again that Terrance didn’t want her to visit Gemma.

      Although she already knew the contents of the letter, she picked it up and read it again, if only to derive a small amount of strength from her friend through the love and caring behind the words.

      Dear Elizabeth,

      I hope this letter finds you well.

      I have decided to stay with Molly Birdwell—an older widow here in Clear Springs. She takes in boarders since her husband passed a few years ago. I believe this will afford me the greatest degree of liberty while I teach here.

      The schoolhouse is in the final stages of completion and should be ready by the time you receive this letter. Although the children will have benches at first, it is my hope to have individual desks eventually. There is a dearth of supplies—pencils, slates and such—but the blackboard sits waiting to be fixed to the front wall of the room and the glass panes have arrived for the windows.

      I am giddy with anticipation of the coming year. Although this profession wasn’t my first choice, it will be a good one. I’ll be making young minds grow—not a bad legacy if I do say so myself.

      Elizabeth smiled, hearing Gemma’s voice in her mind.

      I am missing you, dear friend, especially the intense discussions we shared in our Shakespeare’s Reading Circle. I hope you were able to keep that going after my departure. I wait eagerly for the arrival of my next letter from you and news of the happenings in La Playa.