"I carry several, for I often make people cry," he said, his tone light.

Maggie glanced up at him.

His smile was kind, and compa.s.sion softened his eyes.

"I suppose seeing a familiar face. . . ."

"Of course." He walked to the cradle and peered at the sleeping baby. "G.o.d has blessed you with a beautiful daughter."

Maggie couldn't hold back another wave of tears. "I was so frightened, Reverend Joshua."

"All women are fearful when labor is upon them. But you certainly had special circ.u.mstances. Alone, without a doctor or other females. I imagine you felt terrified."

"Mr. Livingston was wonderful," Maggie said, sitting up to defend Caleb if need be. "Charlotte and I owe him our lives," she said, her tone fierce. "And don't believe his ridiculous claim that Oswald's death is his fault, for I will strongly oppose such a statement."

"So I see." His smile widened. "I believe Mr. Livingston has taken a reasonable stance in the matter and is not overburdened with guilt."

"He's not overburdened with guilt anymore." Maggie subsided and leaned against the pillows. "I certainly nagged him enough on the topic. Stubborn man."

Reverend Joshua quickly brought a hand to his mouth, covering a cough that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off laugh. When he lowered his hand, his expression was appropriately grave, but his eyes danced. "I believe Caleb Livingston has met his match in you."

He motioned to the tray of dishes on the bed next to her. "I see you've eaten. Mrs. Graves is a good cook. You'll be well fed while you're here."

Maggie waved at the game table. "She left tea and cookies. Oatmeal. Said you like them."

"I do. Would you like some tea?"

She shook her head.

Reverend Joshua walked to the table and poured himself a cup of tea. A floral fragrance filled the room. Then he put two cookies on a small plate. He carried the cup and saucer in one hand and the plate in the other and returned to Maggie's side, placing them on the nightstand in order to pull a chair over to the side of the bed. "Would you mind if I move the cradle a few feet? I'll reposition it back before I leave."

"Of course."

The minister shifted the cradle with obvious care to not wake the baby, then sat down, picked up the cup and saucer, and took a sip of tea. "Now for a more serious discussion." He set the cup and saucer back on the nightstand. "You have been through quite an ordeal, Mrs. Baxter, which must have taken an emotional toll on you."

Traitorous tears blurred her eyes again. "I'm not sorry Oswald is dead." A sob burst from her throat. "In fact, I'm grateful. It's so sinful of me, I know." She dabbed at her eyes.

"The commandments tell us not to kill, which you didn't, and to honor your husband, which I'm sure you did when he was alive." He dipped his head to catch her eye. "Am I correct in that?"

She nodded but couldn't meet his eyes and hid behind the handkerchief.

"Well, the commandments do not say you need to honor Oswald after his death if he wasn't a man who deserved such; therefore, I do not believe you're sinning."

Maggie lowered the handkerchief, feeling as if a load had rolled off her shoulders. "I should have listened when you told me to postpone the wedding." She glanced at the baby. "I keep telling myself Charlotte was worth all the pain of my marriage."

"Sometimes, time alone isn't enough to discern someone's true character." He let out a breath, his eyes sad." I knew my wife for several years before our marriage. Often dined at her home and was around her on many other occasions. Character may not be revealed until circ.u.mstances change. Marriage is a very imperfect science."

"Yet you're marrying again," Maggie pointed out. "When I've heard you speak of Miss Bellaire, you've sounded enthusiastic. How do you know you'll find lasting happiness?"

"Besides emotional feelings of attraction, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I guess you can say I've witnessed circ.u.mstances testing Delia, and I feel I can depend on her real character." His expression grew thoughtful, as if remembering. "We will have challenges, of course. All couples do."

"I don't plan to marry again, Reverend Joshua." Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. "I plan to devote my life to raising my daughter."

"Very admirable."

She shot him a challenging look. "You won't argue a woman's role as a helpmate? Her destiny to marry?" To Maggie's ears, her question sounded belligerent and not at all the way one should speak to a minister.

"I think there's no need for me to argue that point," Reverend Joshua said in a gentle tone. "You will find your way."

Maggie tried to puzzle his meaning. Then he leaned forward and smiled at her daughter, and she did so, as well, forgetting his cryptic statement.

Reverend Joshua touched Maggie's hand. "Let's talk about Oswald. Mr. Livingston tells me you don't want him transferred to the graveyard in Sweet.w.a.ter Springs. Have you changed your mind? I could conduct a funeral, or at least a burial service. Or my father could, if you prefer."

Maggie shuddered. "No, leave Oswald be."

"What about a service?"

Maggie shook her head. "No one here knew him. If you could say a prayer for his soul. . . ."

She let out a long, slow breath. "So sad to live the kind of life where no one mourns your death-but, in fact, is relieved by it."

Reverend Joshua stroked his chin. "I think you just gave me my topic for a sermon."

A sardonic laugh squeezed out of her. "Well, then my husband's death has done some good, after all."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

After he'd quickly bathed and changed, Caleb walked to the cabinetmaker's shop located on a back street of the town. He'd commissioned wine shelves from Phineas O'Reilly before and knew the man was reliable and did fine work. The only problem was the carpenter's propensity to gossip. The last thing he wanted was his personal business spread hither and yon. Hopefully, he could swear O'Reilly to secrecy.

The front window in the false-fronted building gleamed in the late afternoon sun, showing off a display of painted statuettes-animals and figures of the Madonna carved by Pepe Sanchez, who worked at the livery. Last Christmas, Caleb had bought a crche from the stableman to give to Edith for Christmas.

The signage above the window in crooked letters proclaimed: PHINEAS O'REILLY, COFFIN MAKER, CARPENTER, AND CABINET-MAKER. He'd always thought it ironic that the bulk of O'Reilly's income came from coffins and had counted himself blessed not to call upon the carpenter for that service.

Guilt made Caleb wince. He wasn't reconciled to the thought of Oswald Baxter lying without a coffin in an unmarked grave in the wilderness, but he needed to respect Maggie's wishes.

He toyed with the idea of commissioning a headstone for the man, so someday Charlotte would know the site of her father's grave. Although, Caleb supposed he could take her there if she ever wanted to go. The place was burned into his brain and wouldn't be hard to find, no matter how far in the future.

I'm imagining a future with the child. Will Maggie even remain in Sweet.w.a.ter Springs so I can see Charlotte grow up? I'll do what I can to make that happen.

Caleb opened the door and entered the shop, inhaling the scent of sawdust and varnish. The carpenter's latest wares, a commode, a credenza, and a side table-all with decorative inlay on top-were displayed in the front room. But there was no one at the counter. Through a back door that led into the workshop, he could hear the grinding of a saw. "O'Reilly!"

The sawing stopped. A burly man ambled through the door, wiping his hands on a short canvas ap.r.o.n. He wore his rust-colored hair in a tail, and his bushy beard was untrimmed. "Mr. Livingston, what can I do for you? Another wine rack?"

"Not this time." Caleb hesitated. "I have a commission for you, but I need your discretion. I'm planning a surprise."

O'Reilly rubbed his palms together. "My favorite kind."

"Well, this won't be your usual gift." He forced out the story. "While on the road to Morgan's Crossing, my surrey and a caravan crossed from different directions. Both of us were driving too fast on hilly terrain, and his vehicle ran off the road. The driver was killed, but his wife and baby survived. The caravan, which is the woman's home, was wrecked-at least the left side and part of the roof. The structure might still be sound."

O'Reilly rocked back on his heels. "You want me to cobble it back together, Mr. Livingston?"

Does the man think I'm cheap? "Would I have you cobble something?"

O'Reilly gave him a sheepish look. "Guess not, eh."

"The wagon is a ways out, almost halfway to Morgan's Crossing-about an hour past the second wayfarer's hut. I'll send Jed with you-both to help you fix the vehicle enough to travel and to drive the caravan back early or late enough so no one sees it. Once it's here, secretly park it in that barn of yours where you keep your wood and work on it there. I want the whole thing restored until it's shiny like a new penny."

"Will cost you plenty of 'em shiny pennies."

"That I know. But I also know I can trust your expertise. It's a Gypsy wagon. Has some detailing on it. Green and gold. A painting on the interior ceiling."

"You have a time limit on this project?"

"As soon as possible."

O'Reilly tugged on his beard. "If I might make a suggestion. . . ."

Caleb made a go-ahead motion.

"If money is no object and time is short, how about hiring Pepe Sanchez away from the livery for a bit? It's still a slow time of year for them, so Mack Taylor might not mind." He waved toward the figurines near the window. "Pepe's a right dab hand at painting things."

"Good idea." Caleb had no doubt Mack would let his stableman go along. After all, I hold the note on that expansion he's about to undertake. "I didn't really notice what was painted on the ceiling-the picture was faded, and with the accident and all, I had other priorities. But from what I recall, it will take an artist to restore."

O'Reilly's grin showed some missing teeth. "Pepe will like that you called him an artist."

"What else do you have in mind?"

"Instead of bringing the thing here, I suggest we take it to Gideon Walker's. It's a tad-and-a-mousetail closer to where the caravan lies now, and if he does some of the work with me, then we'll be finished in no time."

"Excellent." Caleb nodded. "Although, the Walker place isn't as close as you imply. As an eagle flies, maybe, if you could travel cross-country. But they live on a different road. You'll have to drive with the caravan toward Morgan's Crossing and then take the right-hand fork in the road and backtrack."

"We'll manage."

"At least this way, there will be less chance of the secret getting out."

O'Reilly guffawed. "At least not from Walker. Iffen you don't count his quotes and such, I don't think I've heard him speak more than a hundred words together in all the time I've known him."

Caleb thought of the man who'd been a hermit before marrying a mail-order bride. "He does make a few words go a long way." He drummed his fingers on the counter. "I'll still send Jed with you and Pepe. Once you have the wagon moved to the Walkers, he can return and fill me in on the details, as well as let me know anything you might still need to finish the job."

The carpenter tugged on his beard again, obviously thinking. "I should buy extra gold paint. That stuff's expensive, and Pepe only keeps a short supply in."

"Done. And Pepe can have any that's left over. Take boxes to pack the Baxter's belongings. Separate the husband's clothes and such so Mrs. Baxter doesn't have to see them until she's ready."

"Sh.o.r.e will, Mr. Livingston."

Now to face the Cobbs. Caleb walked out the door and strode to the mercantile, not even tempted to stop in at the bank or continue on to his hotel, which normally would have been his first order of business upon returning to town. Although vaguely aware such disinterest was not like him, he was too focused on a mental list of what he needed to purchase for Maggie and Charlotte to pay his unusual behavior any mind.

Lost in thought about how to explain Maggie's situation in a way that would keep gossip to a minimum, he only nodded at pa.s.sersby and didn't stop to talk. When he reached the doors of the brick mercantile, the need to deal with the unpleasant proprietors brought back his attention.

While in the past he'd often sided with the Cobbs on civic issues and other matters, he'd never warmed to the couple, and he knew they could treat some of their customers abominably, especially those they considered beneath their notice. If Maggie had arrived here with Oswald and that Gypsy caravan, the Cobbs would have given her short shrift. He intended to prevent that kind of behavior if he could.

Inside, Caleb inhaled the familiar smell of pickles and baked goods. In the last year, as the town grew, the Cobbs had crammed the store with goods that might appeal to a wider variety of customers. Lately they'd talked about hiring Caleb's construction crew to add another room to the building when the men were through with the Norton-Bellaire house.

The large room was quiet, and Caleb didn't hear movement on the other side of the high aisles. He was grateful no one was in the store at this time, for he didn't want to have to explain more about Maggie and Charlotte than he had to. Nor did he want prying eyes gossiping about his purchases. Probably everyone was home getting ready for supper, and no one would disturb him.

Mr. Cobb stood behind the counter, adding figures on a ledger. His wife was nowhere in sight. Although it was still bright, the sun only starting to drop, he'd lit a lamp for extra illumination. The glow of the lamp reflected off his shiny bald pate, rimmed by a tonsure of hair. He looked up and his bulbous red nose twitched. "Ah, Mr. Livingston, you've returned. Always a pleasure to serve you."

"Good evening, Mr. Cobb. Is your wife around? I have some shopping. . .eh, female shopping to do."

The man cleared his throat. "Mrs. Cobb is making supper, but I'll send her right in." He disappeared through a partially opened door that led to their personal quarters.

In a few minutes, Mrs. Cobb hastened out to meet him. She was as short and round as her husband was tall and thin. The woman gave him a professional smile, which didn't come near to reaching her close-set brown eyes. She wore a dark-gray shirtwaist and skirt trimmed with red embroidery. The balloon sleeves made her arms look heavy.

Edith had also taken to wearing the fashionable puffed sleeves. Caleb thought the style ridiculous, but he had a feeling Maggie might like a dress with red embroidery. "Mrs. Cobb, I have guests staying at my house-a woman and her baby. Due to an accident, they are in need of new clothing and other necessities. . .well maybe more than necessities."

The shopkeeper's gaze sharpened. "I heard there was trouble. That you have a guest."

"While driving from Morgan's Crossing, Mrs. Baxter and her husband suffered an accident with their wagon. Unfortunately, Mr. Baxter was killed. But mercifully, his wife and baby daughter were spared."

"Ah," Mrs. Cobb said in a knowing tone and laying a finger to the side of her nose. "And you were on your way to Morgan's Crossing for banking matters. How lucky they are that you rescued them. Why-" she warmed to her story "-they probably would have died out there in the wilderness." With a flourish, she laid a hand on her ample chest. "You are a hero, Mr. Livingston."

Enough of the dramatics. "Just someone who was pa.s.sing by, Mrs. Cobb," he said in a dismissive tone. "No need to make more of my a.s.sistance than it was."

"But they are staying with you. That's a.s.sistance, indeed. I'm sure Mr. Gordon will want to interview you for his newspaper."

Caleb was sure of that, too. He suppressed a groan. He didn't like the idea of prevaricating with Ant Gordon, who was a friend. The two had partnered in business, as well, using their joint building projects-Ant with his office building and Caleb with his hotel-to make deals on supplies and materials.

"Now. . . ." Mrs. Cobb changed from gossiping biddy to greedy merchant. "If you could give me Mrs. Baxter's height and approximate measurements. She just had a baby, you said?"

"Only a few days old." He tried to think back to when Maggie had stood outside the caravan. Seems the top of her head had come up to his chin. "She's yay-high." He measured her height with his hand. "And about this. . . ." With both hands, he outlined Maggie's figure. The back of his neck burned. "Money is no object, Mrs. Cobb. Please bring out what you have."

Her close-set brown eyes gleamed. "She's in mourning. I do have some items in black that should fit her, with perhaps some simple adjustments."

Mourning? Caleb frowned. He didn't want to see Maggie wearing black for Oswald, but he supposed pandering to tradition was necessary.

"I also have several white cotton shirtwaists, some with lace."