Within My Heart by Tamera Alexander Page A

never stopped by the bank on her way home. She sighed. Every day she got further and further behind.
    Snow-laden clouds veiled the rocky peaks, hanging low in ominous tufts of steel gray and purple. A pale winter sun sought refuge behind them, and for the briefest of seconds, its waning light illuminated the approaching storm. She scanned the horizon, taking it in. She might have thought the scene beautiful if she hadn’t experienced firsthand how damaging the snowfall and bitter cold could be to her livelihood.
    She sent the boys on inside and guided the wagon and team into the barn. Fifteen minutes later, she strode back to the cabin, not wanting to waste another minute of daylight.
    She shrugged into Thomas’s old work coat, welcoming its thick layers, and reached for her rifle by the front door, spotting Thomas’s rifle beside it, exactly where it had been since James brought it back to her—along with the news of Thomas’s death. Not now . . . Don’t do this now. She didn’t have the time, nor the energy, to deal with the flood of memories.
    Or to think about the man responsible for Thomas no longer being with her.
    “Boys, there’s enough ham and beans for your dinner, and milk in the icebox to share. Once you’ve eaten, do your chores in the barn, then come directly back inside the house. The temperature outside is dropping, so don’t dawdle. And wear your coats and gloves. Do you understand me?”
    Both boys nodded.
    “Then go on to bed. And use your extra blankets. I’ll build a fire when I get back.” She hated leaving them, but she had no choice. Besides, they were accustomed to being left alone. Owning a ranch meant working whatever hours the ranch demanded, and this ranch was a hard taskmaster. Especially for a woman alone.
    Until last spring, she’d managed to employ two ranch hands, and James had helped when he could. But the loss of cattle these last two winters had stripped her budget to the bone. As it was, she owed Charlie Daggett a month’s wages and had promised to pay him this week.
    She paused at the door and looked back at Mitch and Kurt.
    There were moments, like this one, when she wondered if pursuing this dream—Thomas’s dream for the ranch—was worth it. Swallowing the mounting doubt, she squared her shoulders. “Take care of each other while I’m gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She raised a brow. “And no arguing.”
    She strode to the barn, carrying with her the image of her boys standing there in the hallway. They were so young and innocent, yet already acquainted with loss.
    Picturing the scene of a cougar’s recent kill, she checked to be sure her rifle was loaded and that extra shells were still tucked in her coat pocket. Then she saddled Chaucer, Thomas’s horse, and set out toward Crowley’s Ridge just as the first snowflakes fell.

7
    A cloth-covered tin, complete with bow, sat wedged against the clinic door alongside a large burlap bag tied tight with string. Both were dusted in snow. Rand bent to pick them up, already guessing who the tin was from—and hoping he was wrong.
    Once inside, he shouldered the clinic door shut, but not before the snow and wind burrowed their way in behind him. Cold and tired, back muscles aching, he deposited his satchel in the chair by the door and laid the burlap bag and tin on the examination table.
    Glancing again at the burlap bag, he wondered at its contents. It was sure heavy enough. After lighting an oil lamp, he untied the bag to reveal a smoked ham. He read the letter tucked inside and a wave of gratitude overtook him.
    With eleven mouths to feed, not counting their own, Mathias and Oleta Tucker could scarcely afford to part with this meat, but for him to refuse it would be considered an insult. Six of their children had been ill with the croup and required medicine, yet all eleven had signed the note thanking him. Oleta had added a line along the bottom explaining, again, that she wished they possessed the money