Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T he click of metal on metal jarred Jonah from a restless slumber. His eyes flew open before his mind fully engaged. The dark barrel of a revolver loomed less than an arm's length from his face.

He shifted his focus to the person holding the weapon—and had to blink to get the image clear in his sleep-fogged mind.

A woman. Red hair.

Patsy?

This stop in Missoula was to be his last before trudging back to the ranch. He'd ridden through the night to get here and had been trying to get in a few hours of sleep before he started searching. Could he have found her, here at the very end?

When she spoke, her voice came out hard. "Jonah Coulter?"

"Yes, ma'am." He managed to squeeze out the words.

"I've got questions for you. And you'd best answer them straight."

Jonah swallowed, his mouth dry as sawdust. The woman's grip on the gun was steady, practiced. She meant business. No trace of feminine softness here.

"Happy to answer." But he'd rather not do it lying flat on his back. He started to edge up to sitting in bed. "You can put that thing down."

When he moved, she shifted the barrel to aim at his face. "Stay where you are." Her tone left little doubt that she'd pull the trigger.

He halted, still on his back, though his head rested farther up on his pillow. "I promise I mean you no harm." Especially if this was Patsy. He'd be protecting her, not hurting her.

"Are you the one putting up the flyers?" Her face gave no hint of any emotion except anger.

"If you mean the ones looking for a woman named Patsy, then yes."

"What do you want with her?"

He raised his brows. "Is your name Patsy?"

"No." The response came short and swift, like a punch to the gut.

His hope sank. She had to be Anna's aunt. She fit the vague description—age and hair color mostly. And she had the same rounded cherub cheeks as the little girl. Why would this woman trust him so little that she'd lie?

She must be in some kind of trouble.

Before he could find a way to ask, she spoke again. "Name's Patience Whitman."

Ah.

Patience . Patsy could certainly be a nickname. He'd been searching for women with all the names that could be derived from Patsy—Patricia, Patrice, Pasquale, Patty. But he'd never thought of Patience.

He needed to tread carefully. He'd seen mountain cats with less searing stares. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitman. Do you, by chance, have a niece named Anna? She's seven years old with medium brown hair. She was traveling with her grandmother to find you."

The woman's eyes widened for a half a heartbeat. She must not have known about their search. Anna hadn't been certain whether she did or not.

When she didn't say anything, Jonah added, "She calls her grandmother Gamma."

"How do you know about Anna?" Patsy—and he was certain that was who this was—glared, her head turning a little so she could stare more through her right eye. "You'd best start explaining yourself. My finger's getting twitchy on this trigger."

He'd have to tell her everything. Every part of the story he knew, anyway. He had a feeling this conversation was about to get a whole lot more complicated, but for the sake of the little girl waiting for word of her aunt, he had to try.

Even if it killed him. Which, considering the gun still aimed at his face, it just might.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "My brothers and I live on a ranch in the mountains. We found Anna and her grandmother." He raised his brows. "Your mother, maybe?" She gave no answer, so he kept going. "They camped on my family's ranch last winter. The snow got thick and the weather miserable. We brought them in our house, and my sister-in-law—she's a doctor—treated them for cold exposure. Anna was fine, but her grandmother was already mostly unconscious."

He swallowed hard. He'd really not wanted to break the news this way, but this woman seemed to need every little detail to convince herself of his honesty. "Sadly, she passed on that evening. Anna's been with us ever since. She told us about her aunt, whom she and her grandmother were traveling to see. She didn't know the particulars, not even the aunt's last name. Only that the lady had come to the Montana Territory to be married."

The gun wobbled a tiny bit when he spoke those last words, and she tightened her jaw. "Why isn't Anna with her parents? Where are they in all this?" Her pitch came out sharp, accusatory, as if she already suspected the answer but needed to hear it confirmed aloud .

Jonah hated to say. Even a woman as hardened as this one shouldn't have to be told like this that her entire family was dead. That the bright-eyed little girl who shared her blood was now an orphan, adrift in a world that had already been so cruel to her.

But he had no choice. Mrs. Whitman deserved the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

"I'm sorry." He kept his voice gentle. "From what Anna's told us, her parents passed away. I think her grandfather has been gone a while, so it was just her and her grandmother. It sounds like they were settled well before they came west. But now…" He trailed off, letting the unspoken implication hang in the air between them. He couldn't help but add, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Whitman."

She visibly swallowed, and the gun trembled again. "It's Miss. I'm not married." The words came out in a hoarse whisper, almost like a side note as she took in the massive load he'd just handed her.

He could ask what happened to her marriage later—or not, as it might not be any of his business. For now, he had to help her face this awful truth. His own chest ached. Despite the gun she still aimed at him, he wished he could make this easier on her. Not that there could be any comfort for the grief that came from so much loss.

A single tear tracked down her cheek, glistening in the dim light of the hotel room.

But her expression still held strength. And determination. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" Though her voice was still wary, a note of desperation crept in. "How do I know this isn't a trick?"

Jonah met her gaze steadily. "How would I know anything about your family? And why would I lie? I'm here because Anna needs you. You're the only family she has left." He wanted to ask what kind of trouble she was in that would make her so suspicious, but that would likely put her even more on guard.

She drew a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders as if steeling herself from the weight of her emotions.

He had to speak before she made up her mind against him. "Is there anything I can do to prove I'm telling the truth? Your niece and mother didn't have much with them when we found them. A few brightly colored blankets. It seemed your mother liked bright colors. She wore a necklace that Anna has now. Big round beads. Lots of different colors."

Patsy straightened. "What are the beads made of?"

She was testing him.

He worked to recall as much as he could, though it'd been months since he'd been home, and he hadn't paid much attention. "They're wooden. I think smaller near the clasp and larger near the center of the necklace." He could hold up his fingers to show the size, but she didn't look ready for him to move just yet.

She narrowed her gaze, making him think his description had made her more wary, not less. "Michael told you about the necklace, didn't he? It's not worth much, I can tell you that."

He let his confusion show. "I don't know who Michael is. I know about the necklace because Anna wears it all the time."

Miss Whitman straightened her shoulders, her jaw set with determination as she stepped back. "I'm leaving now." Her voice had once again turned hard and unyielding. "You'd best get out of town today. The next time I see you. I'll shoot first and not waste time with questions."

As she backed out the door, disappointment soured his belly. How had he not convinced her? The truth was on his side, yet he'd failed to make her believe him.

Light from the hallway glimmered in her red hair as she stepped from the room and pulled the door closed.

The click of the door latch fired like a gunshot in the quiet room, releasing Jonah from the hold of his covers. He surged to his feet and started pulling on his clothes. Should he go find Miss Whitman and try to convince her again? Maybe if he brought Chuck from the livery, or someone else she might know around town to stand as a character witness for him.

She was so skittish, though, he had a feeling he needed to find a way to prove his claim—something she wouldn't be able to deny.

Should he bring Anna here?

Even as the thought rose, he pushed it down.

He didn't like the thought of bringing a child to such a harsh place as a mining town. The journey alone would be hard—two days here and back if he went slower for the girl. They'd have to sleep on the hard ground. Even if he decided to do it, Jericho wouldn't hear of her leaving the ranch, and Naomi and Eric would be on his side. They were so protective of the girl, not allowing anything that might make her feel insecure or afraid, as she'd been when she was stranded in the snow and cold, her grandmother too sick to help.

No. He wouldn't try to bring Anna here.

But could he fetch the necklace?

If he could get it from the ranch and present it to Patsy, would she consider it proof enough? It would certainly prove that Michael—whoever he was—hadn't told Jonah about the piece.

Making a decision, he finished dressing and grabbed up the few belongings he'd pulled from his saddle bags. He'd ride back to the ranch to get the necklace—that would work, surely—and maybe he would raise the idea of bringing Anna herself.

At the very least, maybe someone else would want to come back with him and talk to Patsy. Getting Anna's aunt to come see her wasn't Jonah's responsibility alone anyway. He'd taken on the job of finding her so he'd have something to keep him away from the ranch while Naomi and Eric set up their new life. His ex-fiancée and her new husband…

He still wasn't ready to deal with that.

Well, at least he'd found Anna's aunt, though obviously he wasn't going to be able to talk her into doing right by her niece. He never had been good at getting a woman to choose him. At least not when she wasn't backed into a corner.

P atience had to stay calm. In control. Telling herself that wasn't helping, though.

Her hands trembled as she closed the door to the small room above the cafe she shared with Lottie.

Surely the man who called himself Jonah was lying. Her entire family couldn't be lost to her.

But how would he know about Anna? The necklace?

Was her niece truly alone in the world?

Lottie looked up from the washbasin, a smile brightening her eyes. It dimmed when she saw Patience.

They'd only managed to get such private quarters because Lottie cooked in the cafe, and Patience had come to appreciate the older woman's company as much as the narrow chamber they shared.

Lottie's brows drew together. "What's wrong, dear? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Was she that transparent? She tried for a smile. Lottie was the one person she could talk to, the one person who didn't judge her for her occupation or how she spent her time. Patience hadn't shared much about her past with the woman, only that she was a widow, a situation they had in common.

But Lottie's husband had died of a weak heart. He hadn't been murdered by a slick card shark. That part of the story, Patience hadn't told her .

Lottie dried her hands on her apron and reached for her, tugging her to one of the chairs around their small table, cast-offs from the business below. They'd repaired the broken legs but couldn't do anything for the scarred wood.

Patience sank into the seat, and Lottie settled in the other, looking her up and down. "Well, go on then. What happened?"

Where should she start? With the part that ached the most, maybe.

She swallowed. "I found out there's a man looking for me. He says his family found my niece. That…the rest of my kin are all…gone." Her voice cracked as she forced out the words.

Lottie covered Patience's hands with her own. "Oh, honey. No."

The gentle answer released a geyser in her chest, and a sob rose up against her control. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Mama. She couldn't be gone. Not yet.

As soon as she had enough money saved to buy the house and land, she'd planned to write her mother, to invite her out if she dared venture away from Father's oppressive hold. It turned out she hadn't been bound by his rules for a while now.

Another sob ventured, though this time she couldn't name its cause. She certainly wasn't crying over her father's death. Hannah maybe. How could she and Phillip both be gone? What could have possibly taken every blood relation Patience had? Every person she could call family?

Except Anna. She sucked in a breath, doing everything she could to stop the tumult spewing from her. Another deep breath cleared her mind enough that she could speak her concern. "I don't know if it's true. I'm not sure I can trust this man."

Lottie's brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't you believe him? What reason would he have to lie?"

Because the man who killed my husband might have come after me.

The words lodged in Patience's throat. She desperately wanted to unburden herself to Lottie, but fear held her back. Not fear of what Lottie would think. Not really.

If her husband's murderer or his cronies ever followed her trail, the last thing she wanted was to put Lottie in danger by giving her too much information.

"I just…I need to be sure," Patience said instead, forcing herself to meet Lottie's concerned gaze. "Before I upend my life again chasing shadows and rumors."

Lottie leaned forward, her expression intense. "Patience, listen to me. If there is even a chance your niece is out there, scared and alone, you need to go to her. That innocent child needs her kin."

Lottie's words cut through the haze of Patience's spiraling thoughts. She was right. It didn't matter if Jonah wasn't telling the whole truth.

What mattered was Anna.

If her dear little niece had ended up in these mountains somehow, Patience had to find her. She had to bring her home—whatever home looked like now—and care for the poor child. The thought of Anna going through such trauma sent a shiver down Patience's spine.

She managed a nod and another deep breath. "You're right."

Lottie pulled her into a hug, and she allowed herself to be comforted. Then she stood and wiped her eyes. She only had a few more minutes before she had to get back to the saloon.

As Lottie moved back to her washbasin, Patience stepped to the trunk that held all her belongings. She had to dig past blankets and a few garments that were too nice to wear in this rough town. Finally, her fingers closed on the small, cloth-bound journal.

She pulled it out and rested it in her lap. The cover had frayed at the corners, but the lace trim remained intact, if yellowed with age. Her father had given it to her when she turned eight, one of the few gifts he'd ever bestowed that seemed just for her.

It had been so special, the journal itself so lovely, that she never dared mar the pristine pages with her scrawling hand and silly thoughts.

Patience ran her fingers over the cover, her throat tight. She'd always hoped that someday, she'd find the courage to face her father and mend the rift between them. That she'd be able to show him she'd made something of herself, despite his doubts and criticisms.

Now that chance had slipped away. Her father was gone, taking with him any hope of reconciliation. Tears blurred her vision as she clutched the journal to her chest, mourning not only the loss of her family but the unwritten words that would forever remain unsaid.

She opened the front cover and pulled out the piece of canvas, stiff from being pressed in this book for so many years. As she stared at the image painted on it, that familiar longing swelled in her chest. The white cottage, the wide green valley with a stream running through it. Indiana. One day she would own a cottage just like this, in a valley every bit this lovely. She would find this place in Indiana and build her own life. Free from anyone who could control her—especially a man.

She was closer than she'd ever been before. Manning the poker room for Jackson paid well, and she'd been saving every penny.

But if she took Anna in, how much longer would she have to wait until she had enough to build this image for herself? She blinked to clear that question away, slipped the canvas back in the book, then closed the cover.