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no longer acting like the plucky young woman he’d met in the bank. There were worry lines etched across her forehead and a distracted look in her eyes.
    “I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Really.”
    “Then I’ll be on my way. Thanks again.” He started to walk away, to head back to his place, a former Chinese laundry turned newspaper publishing house.
    “Mr. Larson!”
    He was off the porch when she called to him. He turned and found her holding his flattened hat.
    “You almost forgot this.”
    He walked back, reached for it. “Thanks, I think.”
    In that moment, as she stood there framed against the back porch looking bedraggled, worried and alone, he remembered that she hadn’t badgered him about family—as if she’d understood that he couldn’t bring himself to speak of them.
    If there was one thing a reporter hated more than a dangling participle, it was an unanswered question. She’d asked. The least he could do was answer. He took a deep breath and steeled himself against the painful truth.
    “My family won’t be joining me, Miss Hawthorne.” He forced himself to say the word he had avoided using for twelve long and achingly dark months. “I’m a widower.”

Chapter Three
    A melia watched him walk away, punching his misshapen hat as he went.
    She wasn’t in the habit of being alone with a man and, yet, despite her worry, she’d been surprisingly comfortable talking with Hank Larson. He wasn’t like most of the men in town. He was well-spoken, educated—
    She stopped right there and reminded herself that she’d been embarrassed by a well-spoken stranger before. But Hank Larson wasn’t just a handsome stranger passing through—he was here aiming to settle down and start a newspaper.
    Even more reason to be on guard.
    Newspapermen needed stories to tell and Hank Larson was easy to talk to. As the sheriff and a reporter, he was a double threat to her. She’d have to watch what she said around him—if she was ever around him again. She had to be cautious not to let anything slip about having seen someone who looked a lot like Evan outside the bank that morning.
    She picked up the salve and the washcloth and steppedinside her small kitchen. She walked through to the front room that was both a parlor and her apothecary shop and replaced the salve on the shelf amid other potions and lotion bottles and jars. The interior of the house was still surprisingly cool. She raised the parlor shades now that the sun had moved high overhead.
    As she passed the oval mirror on the hall tree near the front door, she paused to see her reflection, critical of what Hank Larson must have seen when he looked at her. Hair the color of rust pulled back in a messy braid. Her nose and cheeks were stained with freckles coaxed to life by too many sunny hours spent in the garden. Bloodstains marred the front of her ruined skirt. It was long past saving even before this morning. The sight of the dark red stains called to mind the near calamity she’d witnessed.
    She turned away and thought of another image, that of the tall, lanky man holding a gun outside the bank, an image she’d seen only through swirling dust.
    Had anyone else seen the second man? If so, would they have noted his similarity to Evan?
    There were a million and one things to do besides worry. Forcing herself to move, to think, she went into her room and changed into a navy serge skirt and fresh shirtwaist. As she balled up her ruined skirt in her hands, she felt a lump in the pocket she’d sewn inside the waistband. She removed her father’s gold watch.
    A shiver ran down her spine when she realized she might have been forced to hand the watch over to a thief. She might have lost it forever.
    The watch was the one thing of value she owned, but even if it were worth nothing, she’d still have held it dear. She carried it every day and thought of her father whenever she felt the weight against the folds of her skirts. Itticked, slow and steady, an