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change from where Gavin stood. Anger, he could deal with.
    â€œI—” The loud groan of stressed oak poured through the mill windows, warning of calamity. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He sprinted to close the sluice gate, reaching it just as a great, splintering crack rent the air.
    The water flow trickled to a stop, the wheel halted its turning, and all sounds of the running mill ceased. Somewhere down below, on the ground floor, he’d find a broken runner on a gear wheel. But now wasn’t the time to inspect it. He had a bride to take care of.
    Hustling back, he turned the corner to where he’d left Marge ... and found no one.
    His bride had vanished.
    ***
    Amos Geer had been staring at her again. Midge shivered and picked up the pace, heading for the spot that never failed to calm her down.
    When Gavin Miller and his new woman drove off, she’d stopped concentrating on figuring out what seemed a bit askew between those two and had looked down to gather her thoughts. Then she looked up to find a pair of blue eyes, so dark they seemed stormy, peering directly at her from behind a shaggy lock of corn-colored hair in desperate need of a trim.
    Looked like she’d found a fellow watcher.
    Not good.
    Even worse, it looked like he’d found her ... first.
    Midge let loose a huff as she pressed onward. Living in Buttonwood for the past four years must’ve made her turn soft. She’d have to work on that with another watcher around. The last thing she needed was someone paying close attention to the life she’d built in this small—although much larger than when she’d arrived—town.
    She remembered the week before, when Amos blocked her escape behind the smithy. Yes, she’d been avoiding him since he first showed up in her town. It’d taken no more than a minute to sum up that the man was too confident, too perceptive, and too curious to be anything but trouble. But when he confirmed that he watched her as closely as she watched everyone else, she’d sealed her verdict regarding the tall newcomer.
    Dangerous. He’d turned that considerable curiosity on the mystery of Midge Collins—and she’d spent years guarding those secrets. Nothing could persuade her to leave it to chance that Amos would not remember their encounter from four years before.
    The more distance she put between them, the better she felt. Just as she went around the millpond, the point where she breathed easier knowing the apiary lay not too far ahead, something snagged her.
    The sound of boots thudding against earth, still audible despite the muffling layer of thick prairie grass, gained urgency as someone came up fast from the left. Midge whirled around, instinctively crouching in a defensive stance, making her vitals less accessible to any attacker.
    A flash of violet through the scrawny scrub oaks caught her attention just before Mr. Miller’s bride-to-be came tearing full tilt around the millpond. Skirts streaming behind her, chignon bobbing precariously without the covering of any hat, Miss Chandler presented a picture of panic.
    â€œMarge!” A deep yell from around the other side of the mill provided all Midge needed to know. Somehow, Mr. Miller scared this woman—and men who frightened women didn’t deserve them.
    Women on the run from such men, however, unquestionably deserved her help. Midge burst into a sprint, helping close the short distance between them, and grabbed Marge’s hand. The other woman raised glistening eyes to meet her gaze but only faltered for a moment when Midge matched her stride.
    They dashed past the scrub oak, past the border of Miller’s land, and didn’t stop running until Midge found the familiar grove of black walnut trees bordering Opal’s apiary on Grogan grounds. Marge matched her pace—an impressive feat, and something more to respect in a woman who had enough sense to find the road when a man