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legs no longer steady.

THREE
    It is the Lord who sees, the Lord who knows. Search me and fill my thoughts with wisdom and grace.
    —Carina
    UNQUESTIONABLY STUPID. But what else could he do—pitch a tent when he had a wife in a house in a town where everyone knew everything? Quillan ordered Sam to stay. The dog looked mournful, lying back down on the stoop. But for once Quillan didn’t want the animal tailing him everywhere he went. He stopped first at the blacksmith’s and ordered a key. To his knowledge, Crystal had yet to procure a locksmith.
    He eyed the towering Norwegian. “How soon?”
    “First thing tomorrow, eh?” Bjorn Svendsen set down his tongs and made himself a note.
    “Thanks.” Quillan went next to the livery, where he’d left the eggs and his personal luggage with the wagon.
    Alan was dozing, but he snapped awake at Quillan’s approach. “And what did the man think of your mine?”
    “He’ll survey it tomorrow. His group will take charge of it. D.C. and I’ll collect our share.”
    “Just like that.”
    Quillan pulled up a grooming stool and placed it beside Alan’s chair. “More or less.”
    “And who’s to keep them honest?”
    Quillan straddled the stool. “Meaning?”
    “How will ye know if yer gettin’ a fair deal?”
    Quillan dropped his chin and kicked a chunk of sawdust. Getting cheated out of profits he hardly considered his own wasn’t high on his list of concerns. But he had D.C.’s interests to look to also. “What makes you think that’s a problem?”
    Alan tapped the side of his head. “I’ve lived. Gold and silver are beguilin’. They make breakin’ the rules acceptable.”
    Quillan looked out the doors at the street crawling more thickly as dusk approached. “Well, I can’t worry about everything.”
    “But you could stay and oversee it.”
    Quillan snorted. “I don’t know anything about mining.”
    “That’s why you have the engineer. And a manager.”
    “Then what’s my part?”
    Alan showed a slow grin. “Your part is to be a presence, a dissuasion.”
    Quillan rubbed the back of his neck. “I have other things to do.”
    Alan shrugged. “Might be if you ever stayed, you’d grow roots.”
    Quillan brushed a spiraling seedpod from his pants leg. “I don’t need roots, Alan.”
    “Ah, boyo. We all need roots.”
    Well, that was something Quillan would never have. He had no past, no name except the one loaned him by two people he despised, and one given to him by two others he’d never known but whose story had been a torment as long as he could remember. No. He’d live without roots.
    “How is she?” Alan spoke low.
    “Who?”
    “Your bride.”
    Quillan frowned. “How do you think? Contentious and expensive.”
    “And bonny.”
    “Oh, she’s beautiful.” No denying that.
    “Take her to your bed tonight. Get her with child. Settle down and make a home.”
    Quillan didn’t argue, but none of that would happen. He stood up, walked to his wagon, and pulled out the bedroll and the pack that held his immediate necessities. Then he carefully lifted the small crate with eggs packed in sawdust. “Good night, Alan.”
    “Aye.” Alan’s smile was misguided.
    Quillan hated to deceive him, but even more to disappoint him with the truth. He went out. Up the block he stopped at Fisher’s and learned the amount of the bill for Carina’s furniture. He’d have provided the things for one sixth what she’d paid, but it was done now. He’d bring that amount to Mae, then request that Carina not shop Fisher’s again.
    He looked around the town, up the street and down, at all the new and existing businesses. Most had nothing to offer Carina—saloons, gambling dens, houses of ill repute—but there were enough others, including a new bookstore, which might prove costly unless he established some ground rules. And he knew how well Carina took direction. Blowing his breath through his lips, he headed for Mae’s.

    Carina pulled the long crusty