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one man in this train station today in need of a good lesson about the proper way to treat a lady. He gave the clerk a warning look that made the younger man visibly nervous. Good , Dalton thought. Let him think on that awhile.
    Walking back over to where Jillian lay, Dalton gazed down at her tenderly. It disturbed him how his heart had begun to beat so fast in his chest when he caught her from falling and held her soft, warm body in his arms. Panicked at the sudden rush of emotion, he had quickly laid her down. He’d removed and folded his suit coat and placed it beneath her head, gently inspecting her injury as he did. It had swelled slightly, but was not bleeding.
    She looked so peaceful and beautiful lying there now. All evidence of the fear and panic that had disturbed her perfect features earlier was gone. Some of the coloring had even returned to her face. That was a good sign.
    In her struggle with Mr. Fitzgerald, a number of her hairpins had fallen out, and now a cascade of strawberry curls fell around her face. Surprisingly, he felt himself fighting the impulse to reach out and feel the softness of those curls between his fingers. A sense of guilt washed over him. Dalton forced himself to turn his back to her. As he did, his hand unconsciously went into his pants pocket and desperately clasped the small, delicate cameo that lay hidden there. He did not want this temptation. He purposely called on a memory of his late wife.

     
    Laurellyn was baking bread early one Saturday when Dalton came in from doing his morning chores. Little Jenny, just two and a half, was playing on the kitchen floor by Laurellyn’s feet with the wooden blocks Dalton had made last Christmas.
    Baking had always been a struggle for Laurellyn, and it pained her deeply that she was not more efficient at it. Aunt Betty had always been a marvelous cook, and she often wished she had inherited more of her aunt’s talent. The biggest problem, he suspected, wasn’t that she couldn’t improve her cooking skills with practice. She did try to from time to time, but her heart just wasn’t in it. The truth of it was that she would rather be digging her hands into a garden full of rich, dark soil than in a bowl full of flour.
    Laurellyn knew just enough to get by, but Dalton had not suffered. Aunt Betty was forever sneaking some sweets or a small treat, wrapped in a napkin, into his hands or his pocket when he’d leave her house after one of his frequent visits. Besides, if he had to eat burnt hotcakes every morning for breakfast, he would do it willingly and with a smile on his face, as long as his sweetheart was there at his side.
    Laurellyn spent most of her free time in either her gardens or with the animals, her other love. Old Decker, Dalton’s horse, was her particular favorite. That morning, however, she felt guilty for not baking homemade treats more often for Dalton. She had it in her mind to make him a batch of cinnamon rolls and had even ridden over to Aunt Betty’s the afternoon before to get a copy of her recipe and instructions. When he came into the house, she was trying to knead the dough, but obviously something had gone terribly wrong with it. It was much too sticky. Her fingers were covered with the stuff, and she was desperately trying to free her fingers from the caked-on mess.
    Laurellyn looked up at Dalton when she heard the door close. A look of frustration pained her face, what he could see of it anyway. He feared she had more flour on her face and in her hair than she had started with in the bowl. No wonder the dough was so sticky! He couldn’t help but laugh. Her look of frustration turned to a glare, and then, just as quickly, a grin began to turn up the corners of her mouth. He could read in her eyes what she was thinking.
    “Oh, no you don’t, Mrs. Laurellyn McCullough. I will turn you over my knee and tan your hide but good if you do what I think you’re wanting to do,” he threatened.
    It was too late. He saw the