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Important notice: All excerpts have been submitted by the author.

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Author: Rachel Wilson

New Mexico Territory, 1880
Her heart hammering so hard it hurt, Grace Molloy stood on the stoop, hugged little Charity to her breast and prayed hard. Desperation made her knees try to wobble but she wouldn't let them, stiffening them hard and managing by force of will to keep them motionless. She wouldn't show her fear to the baby. God and Gracie both knew she was the only hope Charity had, and she owed it to her to be strong. Gracie would die before she failed Charity.

Where on earth was he? She wanted to shriek her question to the heavens. To do so would have frightened the baby, though, so she didn't.

The tang of pine and ancient forest mingled with the scent of dust, and something in Gracie's rattled brain registered appreciation of the combination. Allowing herself a short peek at her surroundings, she decided they seemed quite pretty, in a wild sort of way.

This New Mexico Territory was like nothing she'd had anything to do with before. Which was almost as frightening as her purpose. She'd heard dire tales about the perilous landscape and the lawless men who dwelled on it.

Neither novelty nor violence would stop her, though. Gracie knew herself to be resourceful. She also had no choice. She made a mental note to study this milieu later, when she wasn't so worried.

Oh, dear God, please let him be here.

She shut her eyes tightly, afraid she'd begin to cry before anybody answered her knock. She wouldn't allow herself to cry.

The only thing tears had ever done for her before was make her eyelids swell unbecomingly and give her a headache. Right now she needed her body and mind to function properly in order to carry out her plan. Her plan was the only thing that might save Charity.

After what seemed like ten minutes but must only have been a second or two, she sucked in another resolute breath and rapped on the door again.

Footsteps. Gracie's eyes flew open and she strained to hear. She was sure she'd heard footsteps. Please, Lord. Please let him be home.

When the door opened abruptly she looked up, startled, and beheld that face: the face she'd loved since she was four years old--more weathered now, but no less dear. Her heart soared like a hawk and her lips trembled in spite of her determination. With a strangled, "Jake!" she burst into tears and threw herself at his chest, baby and all.

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Jake Molloy had an impression of soft blond hair under a green calico bonnet, of a faintly remembered innocence and an entirely new womanliness, before his arms closed around the female who'd just flung herself at him. Good God, it couldn't be! Could it?

Flabbergasted, barely able to speak, he mouthed, "Gracie?"

The name left his lips in an incredulous puff and seemed to hover in the atmosphere above them.

Good God, shot through his mind again. He'd been writing tomorrow's sermon when he'd heard a knock at his door. The rapping had interrupted his train of thought and he didn't appreciate it. He still found that particular task, as much as he valued it, burdensome.

He'd yanked off his half-glasses and set them on the Bible resting open in front of him, risen from his chair, and stretched. Another knock had propelled him toward the door, frowning and wondering who the hell it could be. Nobody knocked in Diabolito Lindo.

His arms full of woman and baby, scarcely knowing what he was about, he tested the name again, a little louder, not quite believing the evidence of his senses. "Gracie?"

Laughing and crying, in a state the likes of which Jake had never seen her, she pushed away from him.

"Yes. Yes, Jake, it's Gracie. It's Gracie, and I've come to you because you're the only person in the whole wide world who can help me!"

Jake still gripped her shoulders, a maelstrom of emotions rioting in his breast. He peered down into her upturned face, ragged with tears and worry. Gracie! Great God almighty, it was Gracie!

His arms went around her again, naturally, as if they'd been crafted to do so. A lifetime or so ago he'd sometimes thought they were, although they hadn't been called upon to perform the service for more years than he cared to remember. He'd resented the duty back then; now he was so stunned, he could hardly think at all.

He was in trouble though; he knew that for a rock-solid certainty. Gracie had always meant trouble. At the moment, he couldn't make himself care about it to save his life. In spite of her dramatic declaration, ancestors of which had plagued him during his youth, lightness filled his soul and he smiled.

"My Lord. Gracie. I swear, I never thought I'd hear you say those words again."


When he looked down again, his gaze drifted past her face for the first time. His smile faded. "Good God! Is that a baby?"

He knew it was a baby, of course. The tiny child stared at him from Gracie's arms, wide-eyed and solemn. Its big brown eyes seemed to take up half its face. Jake, who had no experience with babies, felt a pang of fear. His reaction was absurd and he knew it; he'd faced infinitely worse than babies in his life. All he had to do was look in the mirror, in fact.

Gracie pushed herself away from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Jake found his lost smile. Same old Gracie. Never prepared for anything. Some things never changed, he guessed, and thanked God for that as he handed her his clean bandanna.

"Oh, thank you, Jake. Thank you so much. Yes, it's a baby. Her name is Charity. And--and, Jake, she's mine!"

"What?"

Little Charity, startled by Jake's booming exclamation, cringed in Gracie's arms and began to whimper.

"Oh, poor love. Don't cry. I'm here. I--Mama's here, dear." Gracie looked up at Jake, her expression as stern as Gracie's expression could get. "Don't shout at my baby, Jake."

Raking a hand through his hair, his brain awhirl, Jake muttered, "Sorry, Gracie. Listen, you'd better come inside. We can talk inside."

"All right. But--but first I'd better tell you--um--something else."

Why didn't this surprise him? A little warily he asked, "What else?"

"I have my husband's coffin with me, too. It's in the wagon."

"Husband! Coffin?"

Jake looked past the woman and baby filling up his front doorway and beheld the wagon parked in front of his gate. The Mexican man at the reins of the two sorry mules grinned and tipped his hat. Jake nodded at the man mutely, too bewildered for words. Gracie married?

No. It wasn't possible. The Gracie he remembered was a heedless, aggravating, scrape-kneed ten-year-old who'd dogged his every step and made his life a misery. When she wasn't making him laugh.

But Gracie? A wife? A widow? He took another look at the baby. A mother?

As if in answer to his unspoken questions, Gracie hurried on. "Aunt Lizzy said you lived here and that you're a minister now, Jake."

He blinked and murmured numbly, "She did?"

"Yes. And I could hardly believe it when she told me, 'cause the last I heard you were in jail."

"You did?" He felt an absurd urge to deny the truth, even as he knew it would be useless. Somehow the very word "jail" seemed impure in Gracie's presence.

She nodded. "But I always knew you had a good heart even when you were running wild and getting into mischief, and you were always the only person who ever seemed to be able to help me when I was in trouble, and since you're a preacher, I reckon you can bury the cof--my hus--my--my Ralph. You know, perform a service and all."

Gracie sucked in a huge breath at the end of her impassioned speech. If Jake hadn't been so unnerved by her bursting into his life--complete with accoutrements--after fourteen rough years, he might have smiled at how little she'd changed. In some ways. Her mouth still ran on like a fiddlestick. Gracie had never needed another person in order to carry on a conversation in all the years he'd known her.

She still seemed to have been put on earth to torment him, too. That's another thing that hadn't changed at all.

And, as he was extremely unnerved, he stammered, "You--you brought your husband's coffin here? All the way from St. Louis? Because you wanted me to bury it? Him, I mean?"

Giving him a great big smile, Gracie said brightly, "Yes. Because you're a minister and all, Jake, and the only person in the whole wide world who--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know all that." He peered down at her, his brow wrinkling. Something was odd here. Ancient, troublesome incidents began to dance around the edges of his memory, and he asked cautiously, "How long's he been dead, Gracie?"

"Four months."

"Four months?"

She nodded again, a shade less brightly. "I wanted you to bury him, Jake. Because you're kin, and I didn't have anybody else."

"What about Aunt Lizzy?"

"Well, I mean, I didn't have any other men kin, Jake. And besides," she pointed out as if to put a period to the discussion, "Aunt Lizzy isn't a minister,"

He stared at her hard, trying to determine exactly what was going on here. Granted, he hadn't seen Gracie for fourteen years and they hadn't corresponded for five or six--more's the pity--still, he hadn't entirely forgotten the twisted paths her mind could travel. Uneasiness began to nibble at him. "Last I heard you were living in St. Louis and teaching school, Gracie."

"I was, Jake, yes."

"You mean you left your teaching job, your friends and your entire life behind and brought your dead husband here to the Territory from St. Louis? Because you wanted me to bury him?"

She nodded again, and smiled that innocent smile he'd never been able to resist. Or trust. His uneasiness swelled until it stampeded around his insides like a herd of wild horses.

"Because Aunt Lizzy said you were a minister and I needed to be with somebody kind." She buried her face in his bandanna. "I thought you'd understand, Jake. You always used to understand me."

"No, I didn't, Gracie. I never understood you at all." He heaved a sigh as big as he was and with some difficulty remembered his calling as a man of God. "But I'll help if I can."

Her face reappeared from his bandanna, looking remarkably dry- eyed. Jake wasn't surprised.

"Oh, thank you!"

He shook his head, gave up his lingering reserve, decided whatever this meant he could handle it, and chuckled. Good old Gracie. Life sure wasn't dull around her, whatever else it was.

"Take Charity in the house, Gracie. It's not much. Diabolito Lindo itself isn't much, I reckon. But if you've come all this way to visit and to have me perform funeral services--well, I'll go take care of your coffin."

"Thank you, Jake."

"You have anything else in the wagon?"

"Well, yes. I have my bags and the baby's things."

He nodded, resigned to his fate. "I'll take care of them, too." Shaking his head, he strode off to deal with Gracie's bags. And her dead husband. Good God. He looked back once to see Gracie at the door, watching him.

Then he heard her say, "Come on inside, Charity. We'll be all right now. Your uncle Jake will take care of us. Jake always took care of me when I was little."

Jake almost groaned. ©1997 ****About the author: I absolutely love writing romance novels. The genres satisfies all my requirements for a good read: entertaining yarns, fulfilling relationships and happy endings. These books make life better than it is, and there are a whole lot of us who, overdosed on reality, long to escape to a better place. Recently, my herd of wild dauchshunds and I have hightailed it to Roswell, New Mexico. For those of you who don't know about Roswell, New Mexico, it's where the aliens are said to have crashed in 1947. We fit right in. If you'd like to communicate with me about any of my books, under any of my names (Rachel Wilson, Alice Duncan, Emma Craig), I'd love to hear from you (and would appreciate it if you'd enclose a SASE). My address is P.O. Box 2507 Roswell, NM 88202-2507. Email Rachel Wilson Visit Rachel Wilson.

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