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heavy woolen coat. She wore a yellow bonnet whose bow consumed the entire space of her neck.
    Julian’s gaze moved to Audrey. A large, worn bonnet masked her face. She held on to the little girl with one hand, and in the other she carried an old carpetbag stuffed near to popping. She went down the steps and set her bag down, then turned to help the little girl down the steps, sending a harried look toward the house. Julian wondered if a man was going to come charging out of the door, brandishing a rifle.
    “Come on, sweetie,” she said to the toddler as they hurried to the gate.
    Julian leapt down to help them up into the wagon. He set her carpetbag in the back of the loaded wagon, then lifted the toddler up onto the middle of the bench seat.
    “Hello, mister,” the little girl greeted him, cocking her head and giving him a cherubic grin of petite, white teeth.
    This close to her, he could see the riot of blond curls her bonnet half hid. He would never have recognized her as the baby he’d seen last year.
    “Good morning, miss.” Julian found himself grinning at the little girl in a way he’d seen his father do a thousand times and instantly pulled the foolish expression from his face. His father loved children—he had a gift with them. Julian made a policy of avoiding them as he would a contagious disease. “What’s your name?” he asked, surprised he wanted to win another smile from this baby angel.
    “Amy Lynn,” she said, her pronunciation shockingly perfect. “What’s yours?”
    “Julian.”
    She nodded, her face serious. “Juli,” she announced, unknowingly using the nickname his siblings had given him years ago.
    “He’s Mr. McCaid to us, Amy,” Audrey corrected.
    Julian turned to her to assist her up to the bench, but halted as his hand wrapped around her elbow. She had tried unsuccessfully to hide vivid bruises on her neck with her bonnet’s ribbon. The marks dotted her neck in a pattern suspiciously resembling a handprint. “What happened? Who did that to you?”
    “I fell.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
    “You fell with a man’s hand at your throat?” Julian eyed her another moment, neither getting, nor expecting, an answer. He looked back at the house. His hand strayed to the rifle lying under the wagon bench. “Who’s in the house, Miss Sheridan?”
    Her gaze shot to the gun beneath his hand, and the terror that struck her face was like water bursting through a wall. “No one.”
    He looked from her to the house behind her. “No one,” he repeated. “Then who’s going to take care of your chickens?”
    “I have a brother, but he’s at work this morning. There is no one in the house, Mr. McCaid.”
    “Did your brother do this to you?”
    “No. I told you. I fell.”
    Not satisfied with her answer, Julian accepted that she wouldn’t be forthcoming. “We’d best be off.” He helped her into the wagon, wondering at her bruises, wondering if there were others he couldn’t see. He looked from Audrey to the skinny cherub next to her. She tucked her hands between her knees and hunched her shoulders as she stared back at him with big brown eyes, her expression a little anxious, a little hopeful.
    Whatever the cause of Audrey’s desperate actions, Julian doubted she would allow Amy Lynn to get caught in the crossfire. He climbed up into the wagon, ignoring the sudden itching between his shoulder blades. When he bent over to take up the reins, his gaze caught on Amy Lynn’s odd shoes. The leather had been cut out of the tips of her boots to give her feet growing room. Her little toes hugged the edge of the thick leather soles. The black stockings covering her legs were worn thin and scarred with a multitude of mendings. Julian’s gaze shot to Audrey, and he instantly wished he’d never looked at her. Her chin lifted. She offered him defiance in the face of his discovery.
    Defiance.
    Swallowing an oath, he slapped the reins and the horses pulled out.
    Amy turned around on the