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the stalls. He’d taken off his good frock coat and
hung it on a nail hammered into one of the posts. It was peaceful
in here, with the smells of animals and feed and time. The building
was old, having survived untouched by the fire that destroyed the
original farmhouse and made Lars Olstrom, the previous owner,
desperate to pack up his family and return to Sweden. After a run
of bad luck, the Olstroms decided that America wasn’t the grand
place they’d been told, and Luke was able to pick up the land for a
fraction of its worth. He’d built the new house closer to the road
because he’d thought the oak tree would look nice next to
it.
    It was quiet in here, too, with only
the sound of strong, equine jaws grinding on feed, the occasional
contented whinny from the draft horses, or a moo from the milk cow.
Barn cats darted in and out, never letting anyone get close. Out
here, he couldn’t hear Cora blaring like a steam whistle. Even Rose
usually lost her snotty attitude in the barn, when she chose to
visit. Over the past three years, he’d often escaped to the peace.
It was the one place he still felt comfortable, aside from the
fields.
    He sat down on a hay bale
and leaned against the upright behind him. So, he was married
again. But except for the confounding events that had led to this
result, he didn’t feel any different. He didn’t feel married, or any less a widower.
His new status gave him no pleasure—it felt like the business deal
that it was.
    His first wedding day twelve years ago
had been a lot different. When he’d stood nervous and awkward
before Reverend Ackerman with Belinda by his side, he could hardly
believe his good luck. Beautiful, petite Belinda Hayward, the girl
he’d loved since the first time he saw her in the Fairdale
schoolyard, the only girl he’d ever wanted, was going to be his
wife. Just as nervous as Luke, she’d slipped her icy hand into his
and suddenly nothing else mattered. Even then, the mother of the
bride had sat in the front pew wearing a sour look. She’d wanted
someone else, Bradley Tilson, a physician’s son from Portland, to
marry Belinda. Luke hadn’t been surprised. Most parents had warned
their daughters away from Luke Becker. White trash, they’d called
him, when they weren’t calling him something worse.
    As a youngster, his taste for risky
adventures had pulled him far to the left of respectability. His
friends and younger brothers had been as rowdy as he was, and the
sheriff was well acquainted with all of them. Wherever deviltry
occurred, he could be found at its center. They never did anything
really bad—smoking behind a barn, turning some horses loose, a
little petty thievery—none of it seemed serious to Luke. It had all
been just for fun, and nobody really got hurt.
    Luke also hadn’t been above rolling in
a haymow with a willing girl whose father wasn’t looking, or hadn’t
taught her better, but none touched his heart. Except Belinda
Hayward.
    Even though he’d been keenly aware of
their differences—after all, he grew up in a shack down by the
river and his old man had died in jail—he’d wanted Belinda for his
own. Back then, what Luke had wanted he’d tried for.
    Cora had blamed him for running off
Tilson, but then, given Belinda’s condition, there hadn’t been much
choice but to let her marry Luke. She’d needed a husband, and Cora
reckoned that even he was better than none.
    His mother-in-law hadn’t worried him,
though. Hell, nothing could throw a wet blanket on his spirit that
day. He and Belinda, they’d start their new lives together. Then
when he found out about the baby, well hadn’t he immediately
promised Belinda that he’d be a good father? Damn it, what had
happened?
    Absently, he pulled a blade of dry
grass from the hay bale and twirled it between his fingers,
remembering how he’d believed that life could only get sweeter with
a wife like Belinda. He lifted his head and gazed at the dark
rafters over him, and a