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worrying over her child.” Mr. Carver pulled a stubby pencil from his pocket and pointed at an unpainted board. “Before you hie off, leave us with the names and whereabouts of your kin. Don’t mistake my meaning – your ma would be treated like family here. Other than my wife, no other woman ever walked the face of the earth who cared more, worked harder, or had a bigger heart than my niece. But your ma deserves to be with her own if the worst happens.”
    Arletta couldn’t be reached. Even if she could, his sister let him know Ma permanently wore out her welcome. Ignoring the pencil, Todd strode toward the stallion. “The worst cannot happen. I’m all my mother has. I will return.”
    As Mr. Carver went to the door, Todd swung up into the saddle. About two thousand pounds of powerful horseflesh rippled beneath him, testifying to God’s providence. Lord, I put my trust in you. Lead me to safety so Ma can have the best of care. Amen . Todd kneed the horse and made a clicking sound with his tongue.
    The stallion stood stock-still.
    Some horses were trained with a jiggle of the reins. The Belgian’s only reaction to that cue plopped onto the straw behind them.
    “Barn-sour, saddle-backed mares move better,” Todd muttered.
    Adam set out, took one step, and then shook his head. A firm hand on the reins, a tightened clamp against the beast’s sides with his knees, and Todd gained his cooperation. Adam took a few more steps and corrected course.
    This stallion needed praise and encouragement, but he’d do well. Many a horse needed a coaxing – not often this long, but Todd felt as well as saw the change. The tension that came with carrying an unfamiliar rider eased out of Adam’s muscles. A solid pat on his slightly arched neck acknowledged the trust. Man and beast had an understanding.
    Todd felt some of his own tension ease as he urged Adam ahead. Carver opened the barn door, and snow gusted in. Adam huffed to clear away a few flakes he’d inhaled and kept walking . . . in a large arc back into his stall.

    “The snow may let up in the morning. I’ll try again then.” Mr. Valmer set a pair of crates inside the kitchen. Without another word, he walked back outside.
    “Margaret Titania,” Uncle Bo’s voice held an unnecessary warning tone. This was the second time today he’d used her middle name. “No more sneaky tricks. That’s a smart man.” He shook his finger at her. “He reckoned Adam’s a clever horse, but if you pull another stunt, you’ll rightfully incite Valmer’s wrath. No man appreciates a woman making a fool of him.”
    “I didn’t make a fool of him. I owed it to his mother to keep him from killing himself. Her heart would break if she lost him – and I’d have failed them both.”
    Uncle Bo pursed his lips, stared at her, and finally nodded. “Reckoned you’d say something like that. These crates are for your treasures. Start a-packin’. Whilst you have both a cot and a patient in there, stuff ’s liable to get broke. ’Specially with her strapping son hovering.”
    “He’s got rare wide shoulders and huge hands.”
    Uncle Bo shot her a telling look.
    “I noticed because he needs a change of clothes, just as his mama did.” A little niggle of doubt crept into her mind. Was that the only reason? His stature and strength were among the very first things she noticed about him. His deep blue eyes . . . Well, she’d had to pay attention to those in the first few moments, too, to take his measure. And his wet denims had clung to long muscular legs. I noticed his hair’s sandy-colored, too – and there’s nothing untoward about simple observations.
    “Seein’ as your scheme trapped him here, best you pack away all that you can. The nicest things from the parlor, too.”
    Dread swamped her. While the men ate supper, she overheard them weasel out the fact that Mr. Valmer was a bachelor. The notion of Uncle Bo playing matchmaker was enough to make her take to a sickbed herself.