LITMIR.BIZ

      O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good:

      for his mercy endureth forever.

      —Psalms 136:1

       Chapter One

       Hopewell, Montana November 1890

      Kathleen Sanderson cracked open the door. Before her stood a rough-looking man twisting a battered Stetson in his hands. His bent head revealed overgrown, untidy brown hair. Her glance took in the trail-worn, dusty, shearling-lined coat.

      “Rosie, I know you told me to stay away, but I need your help.” He raised his head to reveal demanding brown eyes that widened before they bored into Kathleen. “You’re not Rosie.”

      “True. She’s busy with the baby. If you’ll wait—”

      “Buck.” Rosie’s voice rang with shock as she joined Kathleen in the doorway. “I thought I’d made myself clear.”

      “I’ll take the baby.” Kathleen lifted nine-month-old Lilly from her mother’s arms and retreated to the far end of the room, wishing the house was larger so she could escape and let these two work out their differences without her as audience. Yet this way her curiosity might be satisfied.

      “Buck,” Rosie continued, keeping her words low but not disguising her concern, “I told you I don’t want to be associated with—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know … Go away before you ruin everything.”

      Buck lifted his head, glanced past Rosie, saw Kathleen and shuttered his feelings, but not before she’d seen stark misery. He didn’t shift his gaze away, making it impossible for her to get a satisfying breath. Then he returned his attention to Rosie and her lungs expanded with a whoosh.

      “I wouldn’t be here if I knew what else to do.” A beat, two, in which Kathleen wondered if Rosie found his statement as demanding as she did.

      “Rosie, I have a son and he’s ill. I can’t chase after cows or live in a bunkhouse with a sick kid. You’re my sister. My only relative. Surely you’ll help me for the sake of my son.”

      Rosie gasped. “You’re married? Without even letting me know?”

      “Not married. I adopted the boy. Help us?”

      “I don’t know.” Rosie glanced over her shoulder toward Kathleen as if seeking some signal one way or the other from her.

      Kathleen sensed how troubled Rosie was. Understood something about this man made her tremble.

      She shifted Lilly to her hip and moved to Rosie’s side to indicate her support, but it wasn’t clear in her mind if she meant to encourage Rosie or her brother. “Rosie, how would you feel if it was one of your boys?” She had two—Mattie, two and a half, and Junior, four years old—who both nosed around the corner of the bedroom where they’d been playing to eye this stranger at their door.

      Buck sent Kathleen a grateful glance before he appealed to Rosie. “I’d help you. You know it.” The emotion in his tone caught at Kathleen’s heart. A man who cared deeply. Her heart buckled and bowed with feelings she didn’t recognize. Had never before in her nineteen years experienced.

      Buck stepped aside. “Look at him.”

      A child of no more than six or seven slumped on the back of a pinto horse, wrapped up against the elements until he could barely move. Kathleen wondered for a moment if he was alive. Then he swayed, righted himself to keep from falling and lifted his face. Black eyes. A pale, thin face framed by black hair and a gray knitted hat.

      “He’s an Indian.” Rosie’s tone carried a hefty dose of disbelief and shock.

      “Half-breed.” The way Buck said

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