Wild West Christmas: A Family for the Rancher / Dance with a Cowboy / Christmas in Smoke River. Kathryn Albright

that?” asked his uncle.

      “’Cause it’s got chimneys. Lots of them.”

      Dillen’s brow wrinkled and he cocked his head at the odd answer.

      “Uncle Dillen, if we don’t have any chimneys, how will Santa find us?”

      Dillen’s mouth went grim at this question.

      Cody didn’t notice past the yawn. They had been through a full day, riding out here, spending much of the afternoon outside in the barn and then enjoying their musical evening. She looked to Colin, who was already puffing out steady breaths, his thick eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Alice felt the tightness in her chest every time she saw them sleeping. Was it longing or love? She didn’t know.

      Alice just tucked Cody in tight and kissed his forehead. “He’ll find you here, lambkin.”

      Cody sighed and closed his eyes.

      Dillen stood, hands in the back pockets of his dungarees. Alice turned down the wick on the lantern but left the lamp on the table beside the bed.

      Dillen followed her out into the hallway.

      “Why did you tell them that?” he asked, his voice strained but still a whisper.

      “What?”

      “That Santa would come here. Alice, I don’t have money to buy them toys.”

      “Then make them some.”

      He thought about that for a moment. “I’ve never made a toy before.”

      “But I know you can work wood. I saw the cradle you made for Cody. It was beautiful.”

      Dillen rubbed his neck.

      “Well, don’t fret. I bought them a few little toys and candies for their stockings. We’ll manage.”

      His expression turned sad again. “Alice, you can’t keep buying them things. When you’re gone, it will be even harder on them.”

      He said it as a fait accompli. She was going. But if he would only ask her, she’d stay forever.

      “They are just a few little items.” She dropped her chin and stared at her hands, realizing they were scratched and nicked from all her work in the house.

      “And new black suits and shoes and hats and coats. I know Sylvie and Ben never bought those things,” said Dillen.

      “I just...” She lifted her chin. “Who else am I going to spend it on?”

      That took him back. He cocked his head. “I don’t know.”

      “You won’t let me help you. You made that very clear when I tried. But at least let me help the boys.”

      “You are helping. You cleaned this house up and saw us all fed. Best meal I ever had. I’m just saying there’s other ways to help.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, his fingers caressing her neck.

      It was so hard not to draw her in and kiss her. She’d let him. He saw it in her eyes.

      “I know that. I just... I’m trying not to make mistakes. To do my best for them, and I don’t really know what I’m doing half the time.” She felt defeated and let her shoulders sag, a momentary lapse in her generally perfect posture.

      His hand left her, and she almost whimpered at her grief at the loss of his touch. But then he used his knuckles to lift her chin, bringing her gaze up to meet his.

      “You’ll never convince me of that.” He grinned. “You look like you know exactly.”

      “I don’t,” she admitted, feeling the sudden need to get this off her chest. She motioned him down the hall, farther from the open door of the boys’ room, and lifted a finger to halt him before retreating a few steps into her own room. She returned with Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, offering it in two hands. “I’ve been using this.”

      He accepted the well-worn volume and thumbed through the dog-eared pages.

      “Didn’t figure you’d know your way around a kitchen. You learned all you been doing from this?” He held up the heavy book.

      “Some. But not the food preparation or mothering. I’ve been cooking for years, and mothering is akin to nursing, I think.”

      He extended the book and she returned the volume to the table just inside her room.

      “Your mom wasn’t much of a—what’d that book call it—a household manager?”

      “No. As you correctly surmised, she directs, plans menus and goes over the accounts with the housekeeper.”

      “What about mothering? She do any of that?”

      She couldn’t hold his searching gaze and for a moment considered changing the topic or outright lying. But she knew what her lie of omission had cost her before. So she buckled down and prepared to answer him. She hoped he wouldn’t show her any pity. It was too ridiculous. She’d had every advantage that money could buy and yet, she felt so uncertain.