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the seat before Gil could offer a hand and set her senses to rioting again.
    “Seven o’clock,” she said, gathering up the reins.
    “Seven o’clock,” Gil agreed, and stood watching as she drove off.
    •  •  •
    As soon as Emmeline was out of sight, Gil put away his tools, saddled his nameless horse, and set out for town. By his reasoning, when a man courted a woman—even when that woman was his wife—certain refinements were called for. Soap, for one, and a decent suit of clothes for another.
    His appearance at the general store inspired murmured comments, especially since Miss Emmeline had probably just driven that silly-looking surrey of hers through town at a smart pace, but he didn’t mind. Sooner or later, he’d have had to talk to folks and it was natural for them to be curious. His resurrection was probably the most interesting thing that had happened in Plentiful since the Sioux stopped taking scalps.
    Gil found his neighbors friendly, if less than subtle in their efforts to find out whether or not he meant to fetch Emmeline from the judge’s house and carry her back to his cabin over one shoulder. He kept his intentions to himself, not out of reticence but because he wasn’t sure himself what he was going to do.
    Emmeline was a desirable woman and, in the eyes of God and man, she was his wife. He wasn’t made of stone, nor was he particularly noble, to his way of thinking. Which meant he might lose sight of his philosophy and good intentions one of these days, and show all the restraint of a wolf mounting its mate.
    He bought a wagon and a mule before he left town, and stopped by the mill to order lumber for a new roof. Although he hadn’t told Emmeline when she’d handed over the money for the stock she’d sold, probably to Montgomery, Gil had met with that banker friend in San Francisco before catchinga stagecoach north to the Montana Territory. He had enough cash to repair the house and barn and buy the beginnings of a new herd.
    Back home, he stripped off his clothes and waded into the stream, a bar of hard yellow soap in hand, and scrubbed himself clean from his scalp to the soles of his feet. He’d have preferred a tubful of hot water, but after all he’d been through since the night he was pressed into service aboard the infamous Nellie May, a cold bath was hardly cause for complaint.
    Once he’d washed, Gil climbed out of the creek and dried himself with his shirt. Then, whistling, he got into the new duds he’d bought at the general store. He’d invested in four pairs of wool trousers and four chambray shirts, and it made him feel rich, having such an extensive wardrobe. Never mind that there was a hole in his roof and his barn was leaning to one side; a man could only attend to one matter at a time.
    •  •  •
    Emmeline was standing at the parlor window when Gil Hartwell arrived promptly at seven, in a buckboard pulled by a fine-looking mule. She backed away, lest he catch her watching him, and all but stumbled over a wide-eyed Izannah.
    “Great Zeus, Emmeline,” the girl whispered. “Just yesterday you were going to marry Mr. Montgomery. Now here you are inviting another man to supper!”
    “Stop fussing,” Emmeline said. “You sound like an old woman. And must I remind you—again—that Mr. Hartwell is my husband?”
    “Becky Bickham says her father’s going to preach against sins of the flesh tomorrow morning,” Izannah confided, following Emmeline into the entry hall and right up to the front door. “I think you should attend, since the sermon is so obviously directed at you!”
    Emmeline smiled distractedly, smoothing her brown sateen dress and patting her hair, which was already threatening to come tumbling down around her shoulders. “'Sins of the flesh,’ is it? I should think a situation like mine would call for a discourse on the evils of bigamy.”
    “Emmeline!” Izannah hissed, scandalized.
    Gil’s knock sounded at the door, and Emmeline held