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what one of the store dresses cost.
    While the clerk cut material, her husband went back to looking at guns.
    Once she returned with material, thread, and a bit of lace, she noticed that he’d picked up lotion and soap.
    The clerk put together what he called a train lunch made up of canned peaches, a small loaf of bread, hard-boiled eggs, and cheese. When he started to add it all up, Clint put cookies and a small sack of hard candy atop the pile.
    “Is there anything else you need?” he asked without looking at her.
    She shook her head as the clerk fitted all they’d bought in the bag. She had no idea how much money Clint carried, but he’d been generous, even adding an extra blanket for the baby.
    “There’s room for a few more things,” the clerk said, obviously trying to run up the bill.
    Karrisa looked up at the man she’d married, and he nodded once. She turned to the basket at the edge of the counter and picked up two skeins of yarn and a pair of knitting needles.
    “That’s good wool, miss,” the clerk said. “Spun by a lady right here in town.”
    “It’s Missus. Mrs. Truman,” Clint corrected as he shoved the gun belt and Colt that he’d been looking at across the counter. His words had seemed so cold they froze the room.
    The clerk suddenly seemed nervous. “I’m sorry, sir and missus.” He wrapped the gun and belt in brown paper. “Will you be wanting bullets for this?”
    “Yes, two boxes,” Clint said as he paid for everything.
    He picked up her carpetbag, now completely full, and the brown paper package. He walked out. She had no choice but to follow. The man had asked her to marry him, yet mentioning her being his wife seemed to have made him angry. Maybe he was having as much trouble as she was realizing what they’d done with less thought than they’d put into their purchases.
    When he got to the wagon, he put her bag next to his in the back of the wagon and unwrapped the gun belt. While she watched, he strapped the belt on and loaded the Colt.
    “How long has it been since you wore a gun, Truman?” the sheriff asked as he watched from the wagon bench.
    “Since the war,” Clint answered, but the skill he showed told her that he hadn’t forgotten the feel of a weapon in his hand.
    She couldn’t help but wonder if this cold man would hold to his word to be kind.

Chapter 4

    F EBRUARY
G ALVESTON , T EXAS
     
    A rustler’s moon seemed to follow Patrick McAllen and his brother as he moved silently down the shoreline road toward the Spencers’ place.
    “Seems as good a night as any to kidnap a bride.” Patrick’s voice carried in the midnight breeze off the gulf.
    Shelly, who hadn’t spoken a word since birth, bumped his brother’s knee.
    Patrick laughed. “I know it’s not exactly kidnapping when she walks half a mile to meet me, but you can bet Solomon and Brother Spencer will think so. I wouldn’t be surprised if our old man doesn’t come after me and bring half the congregation along to watch. He’ll have murder in his eyes again and a death grip on that bullwhip of his.”
    Just enough light shone on Shelly’s face for Patrick to see worry lines forming as his brother’s hands tightened on the reins.
    “I’ll make it this time.” Patrick tried to sound as if he believed his words, but the sound of his father’s whip ripping into his back and the smell of his own blood made his voice shake. “I’ll make it or die trying. I swear.”
    His brother nodded. Shelly might never speak, but Patrick knew he could read his thoughts. They had until dawn for Patrick to escape and Shelly to make it back to the farm. Solomon McAllen would never know where his youngest son had disappeared to, but by Sunday Patrick had no doubt that Solomon would be telling everyone that his son had gone to the devil.
    As they moved slowly, Patrick’s thoughts were racing with plans and full of fears. When he’d applied for a job as carpenter to help build a town way up in West Texas, he