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  "Well, then get to work and find something that will."

  Barbara blew the hair out of her eyes, irritated at him once again. Of course, with him, it didn't take much to irritate her. All he had to do was to open his mouth.

  She threw her frustration and energy into her work. Pacing herself to bring a steady stream of new raw material to sift through. Shovel full after shovel full of dirt she worked. They traded turns bringing up the water, also using the stream to help keep cool.

  She paused, leaning against her shovel as Vincent removed his shirt, revealing his tanned chest. Proof of how many hours he spent working in the sun. Beads of sweat ran down his neck, pearling up on his chest. His chest was completely free of hair, unlike what she expected to see on a man, and she found him fascinating.

  Lord, he shouldn't have taken off his shirt. Now as he worked, she could gaze at each muscle as he flexed and strained. Not only that, but with so much golden skin showing she caught herself wanting to see more.

  One time he caught one of her secret looks and would not look away. She felt her cheeks burn crimson when she was discovered watching him. Damn it. She did not want to be feeding his ego. The man was already too cocky for his own good.

  Barbara vowed to keep her head down and ignore those steamy looks that he swept over her, and to also ignore most of his critical comments. The man was a tyrant, but she didn't want him to be able to say she wasn't pulling her own weight. This was how he paid off their credit line at the general store and taxes on their claim, and bought provisions. And this was what she had to do until she could find a way to sell her share of this stupid mine.

  Vincent had told her that it didn't always pay well, but it paid enough to make a living. They were still waiting for the big payoff. After hours of working, and seeing nothing for her efforts, Barbara decided it would be a very long day.

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  Chapter Six

  Barbara was so exhausted that she collapsed on the bed, and felt as if she didn't want to move ever again. Every muscle in her body ached. She was too tired to do anything. She didn't want to think about cooking or cleaning, yet it was time to eat. The sun was setting outside, low on the horizon, giving very little light inside the small cabin. Vincent seemed to ignore her and allowed her to lie on the bed, starting his evening chores, lighting candles with swift strokes of a match, and doing something in the kitchen.

  Pots and pans banged noisily as he worked away in the small area. Barbara imagined she should be in there helping. She should be cooking dinner for him. He had certainly done enough for her over the last day. He had been kinder to her today than she expected such a rough looking man to be.

  But she was so tired. She didn't want to get up. She didn't want to eat. She certainly didn't want to cook. She didn't even want to take the time to undress, for bed.

  She unlaced her shoes while lying down and dumped them on the floor, before slipping between the covers. She watched him approach her with two bowls of something that smelled good and buttered biscuits, and buried her head under the covers. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate it, she was just too tired to even eat.

  "I've never had a woman so eager to go to bed with me that she skipped dinner,” Vincent teased in a deep seductive voice. Her small frame was just a round lump under the quilted comforter.

  "I am not going to bed with you—oh, just leave me alone.” Barbara's words were muffled by the pillow.

  Not too gently, he ripped the covers down off her and exposed her torso. He shoved the bowl of chili under her nose, not letting her refuse. “Eat. You need your strength."

  "No.” Barbara jutted out her bottom lip slightly. “I am not hungry."

  "Eat,” he persisted.

  "Fine,” she huffed, grabbing the bowl from him. He smiled at her, but kept his silence, as though not wanting to gloat in his mild victory.

  She raised herself up to a sitting position, and began to eat the dinner he had made for her. The smart man had kept beans on the stove. And even though it was not her favorite dinner, it was healthy and nutritious, and quick enough that she happily didn't have to wait to go to bed.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, but didn't eat his own chili. Vincent held the spoon just over the bowl, and gave Barbara a long hard stare.

  "What?” she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

  "I don't know why I didn't see this before. You look like him."

  "Who?"

  "Your father."

  Barbara rolled her eyes at the comment. She wasn't sure if she should take the words like a compliment. His eyes held admiration and she couldn't understand why. Joseph Lane had been nothing she ever admired. He didn't deserve her admiration. Not for how he treated her family, and certainly not for how he treated her.

  "He wasn't such a bad man as you seem to believe."

  "I didn't say he was,” she responded defensively.

  "No, but you cringe every time his name is brought up."

  "He was evil to have left us.” It was difficult for her to talk about this subject. Even after the years of pain and heartache, she still wanted the man to have been a father for her. Still wanted him to just be there. Why should she still be feeling a clenching pressure in her chest? She wiped at her eyes, hoping the tears that threatened would not come.

  "I don't think he even knew about you until you were older."

  "What do you mean?” she asked. “He had to have lied about me. He knew we existed and it was his choice to walk away."

  "He talked about you recently, but I don't think he knew much about you when you were little. He said something about your mother remarrying and he had to let that man be your father."

  "No one could ever have replaced my father, even if they wanted to,” she said, bitterly remembering her stepfather and his harsh upbringing. Barbara didn't kid herself into believing that her stepfather loved her. He put up with her because he lusted after her mother, but that was it. A father would have been welcome in her life. It was something she always felt she lacked.

  Carefully Vincent set his bowl of chili on the side table next to the bed. The candle sitting there burned slowly, beads of hot wax dripping down the side as it decreased in size. “I don't know who you got your information from, but I got mine from the horse's mouth. Did you ever talk to your father?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "Well then, how do you know the truth? Is it possible your mother may have lied to you?"

  "My mother would not have had to lie to me.” Barbara took another bite of her chili, silently wondering if what he said could be true, but why would her mother lie to her? What would make her want to do such a thing? But the doubt niggled at her. Could what Vincent was saying be true? Worry knotted her stomach.

  Vincent draped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close, and she stiffened slightly, not used to such close contact from anyone, but especially a man. “It's okay for thinking of your father that way when you don't know any different, but I knew him, and he would have been proud of you."

  "Do you really think so?"

  He looked at her, exploring the depths of her misty blue eyes with his own. “I do think so."

  He brushed her golden hair to the side of her heart-shaped face. Then as if he suddenly realized he may have overstepped that imaginary boundary between them, he hastily withdrew his hand from her.

  "Thank you, Vincent.” Barbara sniffled, looking down at the floor shyly. She had set down her bowl of chili next to his on the side table.

  "I know there is no way for him to know you now. Though I am sure he is looking down from Heaven asking himself how he could have stayed away from his beautiful daughter who is all grown up now. But, there is something...” Vincent's eyes lit up, as if he suddenly remembered something. He got off the bed and looked underneath, moved a few boxes around before pulling out a small wooden cigar box. It was small and old, and an advertisement for Americana Cigars was peeling off the top of the box. Vincent handed her the box as if he was handing her a miniature treasure chest.

  He had to be kidding.

  "This was your father's and I am sure he would want you to have it,” he said, handing the cigar box to her reverently.

  She furrowed her brow as she opened the box curiously. “He would want me to have his cigars? I don't smoke—oh my goodness.” Barbara opened the box, revealing a treasure trove of memories. Letters, some pencil sketches, and a few pictures, all the most important memories of her father's life. Letters to him and from him. She felt a fist clench around her chest as she absorbed what this meant.

  This meant that even in death she could know a little more about her father. Perhaps even be at peace with his decision. It was the best gift anyone could have given her, and she would never have known this box existed if it wasn't for Vincent.

  "Thank you,” she whispered, but words didn't seem to be enough. She had never felt so grateful. It was probably why she had the courage to kiss him. Just a quick peck on the cheek but it was more than she had ever given any man before. Not even her father had received a kiss on the cheek. Not even her stepfather, the man she had lived with for years.

  She felt her cheeks heat and turned her head down in embarrassment at what she had done so impulsively. “Sorry. I didn't mean to do—"

  "Don't apologize, sugar. You can kiss me as often as you like,” he said silkily.

  Her cheeks went a brighter shade of red. It wouldn't happen again, she assured herself. That kiss was a one-time affair that she couldn't imagine repeating.

  She snapped the cigar box shut, wishing she could only shut out her wild emotions as efficiently. She didn't need to feel grateful to Vincent, but she did. “Thank you Vincent. For everything."

  * * * *

  Vincent left her to her box of memories, and for that she was even more grateful. It was hard enough making this kind of emotional discovery alone. With someone watching her, it would be more difficult to let the tears flow.

  Every so often she looked over to the massive bed, to watch him as he slept. His big frame sprawled out comfortably, overtaking her side of the bed. His breathing was soft and regular, but he wasn't snoring. It was comforting to have him nearby. Even if he was only sleeping and couldn't be there to hug her at that moment.

  Funny how, only hours ago, she thought she would be out for the night, and while still physically tired, she needed to do this for herself.

  Wait a minute. Was she growing used to his comforting hugs and his warm voice that caressed her earlier? They barely knew each other, but already she found his very presence a comfort to her.

  The box contained more treasure than she imagined. Her father was a packrat. He kept everything. He had written poetry to her mother. Beautiful, flowing poetry promising her the world and that they would spend eternity together.

  She dug deeper in the box, looking for a clue into her father's life, and she found too many things. All of it brought a myriad of emotions to the surface of her awareness. There was a sense of joy at being able to see this part of his life, and yet a sense of loss and regret at never having known it—him—while he was alive.

  So why did he leave them? Frantically she searched the box, hoping to find the answers she desperately sought. She read into the night, having to replace the candle once.

  She held several letters in her hand that had been returned to sender in a lady's delicate script. They were addressed to her, Miss Barbara Lane. She imagined it was her mother who had written on the envelope, and so it was her mother who had refused him. Not the other way around.

  She opened one of the envelopes just to see what he had to say to a little girl so many years ago. It was sent on her birthday, November 30, 1861. She would have been twelve years old that year.

  A hand drawn card fell out of the envelope. She read the letter, almost numb to the emotions she had closed off from her life for so long.

  My dearest Barbara,

  Happy Birthday, darling. I wish I were there to see your face. What I would give to see how you have grown. I would give up everything to see you one more time, but we all have made choices that we regret in life. Leaving you was mine.

  But let's not focus on the bad things in our lives. I want to see you do better in life than me. I hope you make better choices and ones that leave you happy in life.

  I hope more than anything you have a happy childhood, too. You deserve a puppy that will follow you everywhere and play fetch, and sisters and brothers to play with, and all the things a child wants. All the things I could never give you.

  Your mother keeps sending my letters back, but I want you to know one thing about me if you don't know anything else. Know I love you.

  Love always,

  Your Dad

  Reading the letter to herself left her in a state of shock. Her mother hid her father from her. She was the one who refused to accept him. It wasn't her father who abandoned them. It was her mother, and she did it so she could marry her stepfather who was better off than Barbara's real father, Joseph Lane. It left her happy knowing her father would have been there if he could.

  Moreover she felt mad that her mother had done this and kept it a secret, lied as if she would never find out.

  All those bitter years wasted.

  She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she let it out in a sigh. All of that frustration and anger she was holding in all those years and who was she hurting?

  Only herself.

  Barbara resolved to never do this again. Once was one too many times to make such bad judgments. “I am so sorry, Papa. I forgive you, and hope you can forgive me, wherever you are."

  Even as exhausted as she felt, sleeping would not be easy tonight. She felt too raw. Too emotionally exposed. She blinked back tears and blew out the candle, before padding over to the large bed and slipping under the covers with her partner.

  It felt odd climbing in bed with a stranger, yet nice to feel his warmth next to her, it was also more comforting than it should be to have Vincent nearby. That was why she allowed herself to snuggle into his solid body and why she didn't fight it when he placed one strong arm over her protectively in his sleep.

  * * * *

  "Wake up, sleepyhead,” Vincent said in a singsong voice.

  The morning sun had just risen, bringing a bright cheeriness to the cabin. The birds were outside chirping their wake up calls. All of it accentuated the pounding in Barbara's head.

  How could he be in such a good mood?

  Yesterday was really hard on Barbara physically. She had never had to work so hard in her entire life. Every muscle ached, and she needed more sleep. She may have felt better if she had a full night's rest, but she had been so absorbed with those letters belonging to her father that she couldn't sleep. It was amazing how much her life could change in one day.

  Changes that shook her world. Everything she believed, and knew as a basic truth in her life had been questioned. Just thinking of how her father had been robbed of a relationship with her all these years made her emotionally fatigued, made her angry. Everything her mother had taught her over the years was drawn into question. She had hated her father for the lies her mother told her.

  More sleep would have made today easier, and so would coffee. Perhaps coffee would ease the pounding in her head.

  Barbara mumbled incomprehensible words into her pillow. It came out like, “Mmmmph,” but what she really meant was, I don't want to get up yet.

  "Come on and wake up, Barbara. I let you sleep in too long already."

  "Just a little longer...” Her golden hair splayed across the pillow, her slender neck exposed.

  "Your coffee is getting cold."

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes, I have a cup for you right here."

  As he sat down next to her the mattress shifted, causing her to roll into him. The skin-to-skin contact made her flesh tingle in sexual awareness. She pulled herself away as if he burned her, and she raised herself up on her elbows to try and sit up. The jolt had her looking at him through sleepy eyes. He looked far too masculine—his day-old beard growing in, made him look like an outlaw. Manly and rough, and way too sexy for her. No man should look that good this early in the morning.

  He pressed the steaming cup of hot coffee into her hands, unaware of what his nearness was doing to her. Her strong, slim fingers gripped the black mug, taking it from his much larger hands.

  Her mouth kissed the edge of the coffee cup and she sipped it slowly, welcoming the morning caffeine. Some people valued their cigarettes, and others lived by their whiskey or their alcohol. Barbara's vice had always been coffee. She firmly believed that coffee had to be a gift from the gods.

  "Thank you."

  He cocked one eyebrow up at her curiously, “So you do know how to behave?"

  "Of course, I know how to behave and I have manners, too. Which is more than I can say for some men around here."

  "And what exactly are you implying, Miss Lane?"

  "Exactly what I said. Do gentlemen tackle ladies from behind?” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't she carried on. “No they don't, Mr. Waverly. They also don't force their lady friends to sleep with them."

  "I have never had to force a lady to sleep with me."

  "It's either sleep with you or sleep on the floor. That's forcing me to sleep with you."

  He chuckled softly, the sound caressed her like a lover's touch. “We were not thinking about the same thing, darling. If you wanted more in bed, you would have to ask me to take you."

  "I will never ask you to take me as a lover, you cad."

  "No. You are right. Asking would not be enough, you will have to beg sweetly."

  She let out a breath indignantly. “That is never going to happen, Mr. Waverly."

  "Never?"

  "Never,” she replied firmly.

  "Well in that case, I may have to take that as a challenge."

  "It would be a challenge you lose!” she hissed.

  "I am not a man to back down from a challenge, darling, and especially not one so tempting to win."

  * * * *