From Flame and Ash

— Chapter 7 —

And Through Moonlit Streets, He Carried Her . . .

ELIZABETH'S AVOIDANCE of Rosemary lasted nearly twenty-four hours. Long enough for a night's rest. Long enough for a day's work. Long enough for her to have approached her friend. She did not.

Elizabeth's avoidance of the town's lawman lasted longer.

But neither could last forever.

And neither did.

—ooO0Ooo—

But before either avoidance was broken, Elizabeth Thornton's searching eyes were given more than slivers of red.

—ooO0Ooo—

It happened as she was standing in the street, her young son by the hand, the hot sun boring down on them from its vantage point in the sky. The afternoon was at its peak.

She was not looking for him; he was not even supposed to be in town.

She had been coming out of town's cafe, having asked young wife and proprietor Clara Flynn for some pointers on pie cooking, while little Jack sat in a chair, content and babbling softly to himself in his own hybrid language as he happily demolished the mammoth banana muffin Clara had put in his pudgy fingers. For the duration of their time in the kitchen, she had been careful not to let Clara come into contact with her skin; she well knew by now the looks it earned her when people felt the chill of her flesh. But that didn't stop her from catching Clara's eyes resting concernedly on the pale, hollowed landscape of her face. She pretended not to see.

The lesson was concluded rather abruptly by a sudden influx of chattering patrons, come for a late luncheon, and Elizabeth swept Jack up and exited, holding him by one hand, his other leaving a trail of muffin crumbs in his wake. She shot a look of chagrined apology back to Clara, but Clara just smiled and waved her out.

Outside, she glanced warily right then left. Her anxious hand tightened around her young son's and he protested with a plaintive "Mama". She pressed a kiss of apology against his soft cheek as she bent to him. His hand was sticky and crumby in hers, but Elizabeth wouldn't trade it for all the treasure in the world.

She straightened, relaxing a fraction as she saw that there was no Nathan in sight and that — just as she'd overheard a table of chattering ladies say in her rushed exit of the cafe — Newton was not tied up outside his office either.

But there was a man on horseback in the street.

And Dr. Faith Carter was standing beside the tall buckskin horse, one hand resting on the horse's shoulder as she looked up at the rider, her neck tilting back to see him. A tendril of blonde hair had escaped the low bun she'd confined it within and was curling against her neck in the heat. The rider's forearm was braced across his saddle horn, his booted feet relaxed in the dusty stirrups, well-worn hat in hand. Faith laughed softly in response to something he said and dropped her head, shaking it with a wry firmness, tiny teardrop earrings of blue moving with the motion.

Elizabeth knew who it was instantly. Gunner of the rangy build and green eyes was back.

He saw her first, pulling his eyes—reluctantly?—from Faith's heart-shaped face and straightening in the saddle. "Hello again, ma'am." His gaze dropped lower still. "And howdy there, young fella." Jack, now busy picking up handfuls of pebbles from the road, looked up and a smile entered his eyes, so like his father's it made Elizabeth's heart melt.

Faith turned. "Elizabeth, I don't think you were properly introduced the last time you met. This is Gunner Christiansen. Gunner, this is Elizabeth Thornton, our schoolteacher and now a published author as well."

"Congratulations. That's no small feat. And that's a handsome boy you have there."

"Thank you," she murmured, mention of the book bringing up memories, both good and bad. One in particular . . .

Quiet blue eyes at a tranquil autumn pond, all the more intense for their very stillness . . . a sudden seriousness dropping like a cast over hewn masculine cheekbones and a mobile mouth, anchoring a moment that lay suspended, motionless, in the air. And a voice that still haunted her memories, rumbling through the corridors of her conflicted mind with its lingering question. "So what's in your heart?"

"Mrs. Thornton, perhaps you might have better luck convincing Dr. Faith here" — the cowboy's voice interrupted, eyes smiling first at her, then down at Faith, where a decided twinkle entered their depths — "to partake in an admittedly messy hayride at this autumn festival I'm hearing talk of. She agreed to come out to the ranch for a day to teach the boys something more than cowboy doctorin' readily enough, but no luck on the idea of a hayride. Perhaps you could have a word . . . ?"

Faith scoffed, pink lips pursed, but Elizabeth saw the color in her friend's face and the stifled laughter seeping through her delicate china-blue eyes, and she felt a trickle of something unknown waft through her. Faith had lost the man she'd loved for years to Boston and to the chance of a lifetime, and yet here life was . . .

"I'll see what I can do." She smiled faintly, bending to swoop a finger in Jack's curious mouth, tumbling out several pieces of gravel.

"Much obliged, ma'am." The wrangler nodded wry acknowledgement, one corner of his mouth tilting in amusement at the topic. "You and your son would be welcome to come with the doc here." He smiled affirmingly when Elizabeth looked up in surprise, then shifted in the saddle, reins adjusting through his hands. "I'd best take my leave now. Ranching waits for no man." He settled his hat on his head in a gesture of farewell, then looked at Jack, a grin touching his lips. "Bye, little fella."

Faith's hand dropped from his horse as Gunner angled his head back to her, tipping the brim of his hat at her, the cast of his lips growing serious. "You take care, Dr. Faith. I'll be seeing you." His clear eyes were very green as he gazed down at her. The look in them was intent, and Elizabeth saw a steadfastness there that had her watching the wrangler and the doctor with new attention.

"You be sure to clean that wound like I showed you," Faith called after him, one hand on her hip, as he wheeled his horse around.

"Yes, Doc." His amused voice obligingly carried over his shoulder as he moved away.

"I'd better not see any infection at your next checkup!" Both of Faith's hands were on her hips now. But the only sound that drifted back on the wind was his chuckle.

Elizabeth said nothing, watching as her friend gnawed on her lip for a moment, then turned back towards her a little with a smile. "I'm glad your tests were good, Elizabeth, but how have you been doing with eating and sleep?" Faith completely changed the subject.

"I'm trying," she murmured in response. It wasn't a lie. But it was only a partial truth. The rest of the truth was that, try as she might, food didn't seem to taste any better nor sleep come any easier. Nor was she any closer to warming the chill.

She turned the tables on the doctor; it was her turn to change the subject. "How is Gunner's leg doing?"

"He's recovering well. He came into town for a follow-up appointment on his leg," Faith answered, fully facing her now, her back to Gunner's diminishing figure, almost as if she wouldn't watch him leave.

"What does he do exactly?" Elizabeth kept the subject going. "He has the look of a cowboy, and there was mention of a ranch . . . ?"

"Mmm, yes. He's the foreman up at the Rolling K." The Rolling K was the largest cattle operation in the territory. "But he bought a small ranch of his own last year and is slowly building it up on the side."

"And that's not in conflict with working at the Rolling K?"

"Good question." Troubled twin lines pulled Faith's neat brows together. Then she gave herself a little shake. "Well, no matter; it's not any of my concern."

Elizabeth eyed her while brushing a hand over Jack's hair to straighten it. "Maybe we can get a better idea when we go out to the ranch."

Faith smiled then, showing wordless pleasure that Elizabeth was letting her know she wished to accompany her.

"Maybe." Faith finally glanced over her shoulder, to where Gunner's khaki-and-worn leather chaps clad figure was nearly out of sight at the end of the road.

Elizabeth followed her gaze . . .

. . . and her breath rattled to death inside the confines of her throat as Nathan swung into view without warning, clad in full uniform as he rode back into town; a striking sight in his red serge, mounted atop his big, dark horse. Her eyes clung to him, drinking in the red in all its unfettered glory — no mere slivers this time — like a drowning woman sighting land as he raised his hand, hailing Gunner, who brought his horse to a stop alongside the Mountie's.

Newton's long tail swished as he waited for Nathan, and for a moment, Elizabeth saw a flash of her astride Sergeant, her beside Nathan instead of Gunner on his buckskin. She swallowed, furiously pushing the image away, frightened by the ease with which it had sparked to life inside her imagination. Faith's head turned and she felt eyes examining her profile, watching her watch the scene play out at the end of the road.

"Faith," she said swiftly, casting about for a diversion. "I've been meaning to ask you. I know the autumn festival is a ways off yet, but Rosemary asked me to take charge of organizing the pie contest for it — might I be able to put you down for one?"

Faith looked at her without answering, then back down the road at Nathan, and then deliberately back to her a final time. There was a weighing look in her eyes that made Elizabeth jittery and she struggled to keep her face impassive as the doctor mildly agreed to bring a lattice-top plum pie without saying a word about her or Nathan.

There came a feeling of tension on her hand, blessedly offering a timely distraction, and she looked down to see her tow-headed little boy pulling on her hand, exerting a steady pressure. He wasn't looking at her; the entirety of his little being was solely focused on the man at the end of the road, and he kept lifting his leg like he was pawing at the air, trying to step toward his objective. He strained away from her, the small fingers of his free hand opening and closing repetitively in a gesture she recognized. It was a sign of want.

" . . . 'Tie," he cooed insistently.

Mountie.

Jack Thornton's son wanting Nathan Grant slivered frissons through her stomach.

Jerkily, she bent down and abruptly lifted her little boy, who protested quietly, eyes focused beyond her, his hand still asking. Her heart thundered at the implication of his actions as she settled him on her hip, hands shaking. There was no alternate refuge in sight to conveniently duck into and Nathan would be riding straight at her any second, so—

"Faith, how about giving Jack a quick check-up?" she said rapidly. To her own ears it sounded like nonsense, words babbling out one on top of the other, and she was surprised when Faith seemed to understand her. "He hasn't been in for awhile and I'd like to make sure everything seems to be on track for his age. Might you have a minute—?"

Faith looked at her with raised eyebrows, surprise heightening them. But she seemed to recover quickly, though a thoughtful frown crossed her face as she looked back down the road to where Nathan was reaching across and shaking Gunner's hand in what was clearly good-bye.

"Of course, Elizabeth, but . . . "

"Great!" Elizabeth was already hurrying ahead of her, nearly running as she rushed across the Infirmary threshold and out of sight inside. And not a minute too soon as, down the street, Nathan pointed Newton dead-ahead in a trajectory that would bring him right past where Elizabeth had been standing mere seconds earlier.

The avoidance succeeded. For now.

And only Elizabeth knew that this was the second time in less that twenty-four hours that she had run from Nathan Grant.

—ooO0Ooo—

Her avoidance of Rosemary ended . . . when Rosemary put an end to it.

Elizabeth knew she should go and speak with her friend to explain why she'd seen her tear into her house at dusk-fall the previous evening, looking for all the world like she'd been caught in a windstorm, one both literal and figurative. But she'd been dreading the explanation of it to the extent that she hadn't yet gathered the courage to approach Rosemary about it.

Rosemary had taken matters into her own hands.

Elizabeth had been sitting in the doorway to her back yard, a sack of unpeeled potatoes beside her and two bowls on her apron-covered lap as she kept one eye on Jack, who was engaged in forming a teepee out of small sticks in the grass. She heard the door at the back of Rosemary's house open and she froze a little, then forced herself to look up with a small smile as Rosemary settled a chair beside her in the grass and sat herself down, calmly beginning to snap peas into her own vegetable bowl. They worked in silence for several minutes and Elizabeth wasn't sure who was keeping the closer eye on Jack; her or Rosemary. Finally, Rosemary dropped her hands on top the peas with a sigh as she gazed at Jack, who was now lining up tiny rocks, one by one, to mark a path to his teepee.

"They grow so fast, don't they," she mused. "It feels like yesterday that he was born in that cabin. And look at him now."

Elizabeth knew. Some days she could hardly believe it herself. Her beautiful boy. He was changing so fast it made her dizzy at times.

"He's a gift," she said softly.

Rosemary's eyes were unfocused as she stared toward the little boy. Her hands were limp, the peas forgotten. "You've lost so much, yet you're still so blessed, Elizabeth. You know, there are days Lee and I just sit and listen for hours to the sound of little Jack playing out here."

The words rang in Elizabeth's memory and somewhere, a gong sounded. Hadn't Rosemary said those words to her once before about Jack . . . ? She had. Elizabeth was remembering now. Why hadn't she taken note then? She hadn't even acknowledged Rosemary's comment back then, so caught up in her own troubles and drama that she hadn't heard the wistfulness in her friend's voice or seen the yearning in her eyes. She felt humbled — and a sickening pang of regret sluiced across her.

"Rosemary . . . " she whispered, her own hands going stock-still. "You said that to me once before, did you not? But selfish with my needs in that moment, I never really heard you. I'm so . . . so sorry. One day I hope you can forgive me for that."

Rosemary's eyes were glassy with unshed tears and she just offered a gentle half-smile, a sadness around her mouth.

Elizabeth bit her lip, trying to hold back her own tears. More would be needed than words, but she hoped someday she could show her friend how much she regretted never picking up on something that she was beginning to see had caused Rosemary and Lee untold anguish over the years. How could she have missed this for so long?

The answer was one she wasn't sure she was ready to face.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, feeling hesitant, praying not to be insensitive. Again. "I never asked, Rosemary, because I - well, it seemed not a topic much spoken of, but . . . have you and Lee been heartbroken all this time over the lack of a child in your marriage?"

Slowly, and with her usual elegance, Rosemary dabbed at her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke, was as quiet as a dove. "Yes, we have. It's been a long and fraught journey, with more tears than I care to remember, and nothing but perplexity from doctors. We pray and try to hold onto hope, but as the years slip by and with us not getting any younger . . . "

"Oh, Rosemary." Elizabeth's whisper was strained with sympathy and self-recrimination.

"We haven't given up." Rosemary drew herself straighter, a grave kind of dignity falling over her despite the remnants of emotion reddening the tip of her nose. "But it's hard to wait on a dream when you have no certainty it will ever be fulfilled."

Elizabeth, who had so often spouted what she thought were words of wisdom to other people, found herself wordless.

"Enough about me." Rosemary's hands began to snap peas again. But her red-rimmed eyes were fully turned on Elizabeth as she waited several minutes in silence. Then her question broke the quiet. "So are we going to talk about last night? . . . or are we going to pretend I didn't see you?"

Elizabeth concentrated on the task at hand. Peels in one bowl, skinned potatoes in the other. Repeat.

Simple. Uncomplicated. Unlike the topic at hand.

Rosemary scooted herself sideways so she was facing Elizabeth, her hands never breaking their pattern. "What was it, Elizabeth? What caused you to rush home the other night?" Her eyes searched Elizabeth's face. "It must have been serious. You ran like the hounds of hell were after you."

Elizabeth's lips were going to be raw if she bit them much harder.

"I'm feeling pretty confident it wasn't a matter of safety." Softly, Rosemary's words fell. "That leaves only one option I can think of. Elizabeth . . . ?"

Elizabeth dropped her chin at her friend's questing tone, avoiding her eyes.

"It was Nathan, wasn't it." It really wasn't a question. "He's the only person I know who possesses the ability to throw you into such a state."

That flustered her and she barely noticed that she'd stopped peeling potatoes and was making mincemeat of her skirt, nervously working the fabric through her fingers as potato juice dampened it. She wanted to deny Rosemary's words, but the truth of them accosted her around every corner. Nathan Grant could make her fighting mad, or make her laugh like a girl again—he got her humor, whereas it hadn't found a natural home in Lucas—he could make her tremble with turmoil, he could fill her eyes with red and ease their restlessness, if only for awhile . . . yes, he could definitely throw her into a state. It was pointless to deny it any more when the evidence was both blatant and stacked against her.

Rosemary's silent waiting cracked her.

She dragged her eyes up to meet her friend's. "I . . . ran . . . from him . . . last night."

The admission was slow and raw, as if it were being pulled out of her, one reluctantly truthful word at a time.

"Ah," Rosemary said, her voice barely a breath above soundless. Very deliberately she dropped the peas in her hands into the bowl and then folded her hands over the green, mounded perch of round legumes. "I think you'd better tell me what happened."

And so Elizabeth did. To her credit, she left nothing out, not even how jittery and anxious she'd felt avoiding him all day, regret gnawing at her for how she'd reacted to his straightforward concern for her well-being the night before.

"There's a simple way to fix that." Rosemary gave her a level look.

Was there? Was anything simple anymore between her and the town's dark-haired lawman?

"You know, I saw him the other day . . ." she started hesitantly. "In the . . . the mercantile."

Rosemary propped an arm across her bowl of peas, fingers folded under her chin. "Oh?"

"I mean, why do people think they need to tell him about sales on lamp oil—!?" Her voice was rising, hesitation gone.

"People?" Rosemary's eyebrow made a harsh inroad into her smooth forehead.

"She had her HAND on his ARM, Rosemary!" Elizabeth's breath was stirring fast, remembered shock — outrage? — causing her lips to nearly spit out the words through teeth that were snapped together.

It was hard to explain what she'd felt when she'd come into the store and saw the pretty widow's hand on Nathan's arm, her smile looking up into his eyes. She felt a bit like someone had walloped her in the stomach. And indignant. For reasons that left her flustered any time she came too close to examining them.

"And why shouldn't she?" Rosemary's voice was the perfect blend of tartness and practicality. "In case you haven't taken note — though I assure you the rest of the women in town have — Nathan Grant is a very attractive man whom, in addition, happens to be intelligent, stable, and brave. Why wouldn't a woman want him?" Rosemary's eyes were snapping and Elizabeth jolted, shocked at her friend's words — and tone. "And in case you've forgotten, you rejected him. He's single." She waved a hand decisively. "Not that he wasn't single even before that. He was. Oh, his heart may have been unavailable, but he was and is technically single. And don't think women haven't noticed."

Elizabeth was having trouble drawing breath. Rosemary's words left her ears ringing and visions of Nathan danced across her eyes.

Nathan's hesitant smile as he—the town's new Mountie—ducked into the christening party for the son of his deceased predecessor; his goofy faces as he entertained her baby so she could have a moment's break . . .

The reticent softness lighting his eyes as he gifted her a handmade plaque, the words engraved upon it from a favorite author of hers—something he'd remembered after hearing her name the author just once in passing . . .

The strength of his shielding arm as he guided her and a lost student back to safety in a windstorm, after having come up the mountain to rescue her whole school group . . .

The crooked warmth of his smile as he stood in her doorway with a bouquet of vibrant, earthy flowers in his hand . . . or when he slowly backed away from her, his eyes drifting between her and little Jack, who was himself torn between petting Newton and watching the Mountie, as he told her that maybe he should do something nice for her, seeing as he too was a student's parent . . .

The simple gift of an apple, given with a responsive, playful smile that left her taking a deep, soul-searching breath as he left her in the schoolhouse to testify at a court hearing in another town . . . or the profoundly tender pull of his empathy in a snowy wood as he listened to her confess that she'd never expected to be raising Jack alone . . .

Why wouldn't a woman want a man like that?

She shivered.

Nathan had always been . . . Nathan. Always there. If she needed or wanted him, or even if she didn't need or want him, he was just . . . there. Steadying. Stabilizing. Challenging. Nathan. The thought of Patience McHenry or any other female in the territory being the recipient of those crooked little smiles, those gifts of heart and thought, the strength of his helping hand, or those looks from those eyes, made her feel a way that was not a mystery at all.

Nauseous. It made her feel nauseous.

"B-but he's never seemed to notice them," she stuttered even as the still-working parts of her brain told her that was a nonsensical response.

"That's because he didn't." Rosemary's mouth dropped truths, softly. "Since he came to town, he's only ever had eyes for one woman." She leaned forward. "But that doesn't mean women haven't had eyes for him. It's not beyond reason to think that some woman will set her sights on him now."

Loss, such as she'd never felt, not even when she rejected Nathan, roiled through her, riding on stormy waves of nausea. Beneath all their issues and turmoil, Nathan was someone . . . Nathan was someone that . . .

She couldn't face the rest of that sentence.

What would life be like when Nathan Grant belonged to another woman?

. . . are you sure you want to find out? That small voice whispered in her head again, and she closed her eyes against a stab of emotion.

"He may love you, but he does have a life outside of you, Elizabeth." Rosemary's eyes were not unkind.

All Elizabeth could do was gaze at her friend like a deer caught in the glare of a thousand lanterns.

Rosemary rose quietly to her feet. "Think about it," she said gently. Her hand rested on Elizabeth's shoulder, and then she was gone, and it was all Elizabeth could do not to cry.

She'd ranted and raved — and had a dose of humility handed to her.

—ooO0Ooo—

She had to get out of the house. The air was too close, her thoughts too torn.

. . . had she been blinded by her own selfishness when it came to aspects of her relationship with both Rosemary and Nathan?

With Little Jack now full of all the potatoes and chicken and carrots his little stomach could hold, freshly bathed and dressed for bed, Elizabeth had begged Laura to come and watch him for a bit. She hadn't been able to stomach a bite of dinner, nausea still lurching inside her. With her son safely under Laura's care, she'd hugged him good night, burying her nose in his hair, inhaling his just-washed little boy scent . . .

Then, leaving the house, Elizabeth just walked and walked, her footsteps wandering, aimlessly taking her along the perimeter of town, even dipping into the sunset-bathed woods at times. Where she was going was the last thing on her spinning mind.

The realization that she couldn't get away from, no matter how many steps she took — that her focus on self had resulted in blindness towards Rosemary's distress over being unable to conceive a child — ate at her. What her selfishness had blinded her to concerning Nathan was like a light flickering at her conscience, but like one does with a flame that is too hot, she was careful not to allow herself to get too close to it.

Guilt made her feet slow and heavy, and when she found herself at the pier, it was as though awakening from a fog-drifted dream.

What am I doing here?

Bullfrogs called to each other under the pier, which seemed to sway under her feet, and nothing but memories of Nathan Grant were to be found there. She fled from them, looking for a solitude that was peaceful, her feet carrying her to find sanctuary inside the church-schoolhouse.

She sat at her desk there, gazing at the colors streaming through the stained glass windows as the rays of the setting sun found their way through the panes. She prayed, or tried to, and the serenity of the moment soothed her cold and distraught spirit, leaving her drowsy and heavy-lidded. The weight of a hundred lost sleeps pressed down upon her and she lowered her head onto the wooden desk, pillowing it on her forearm, telling herself: Just for a minute, I'll just rest . . . for one . . . minute . . .

But the aura of peace and the intoxicating feeling of slumber pulled her under, and later, she could never pinpoint the moment she'd succumbed to its siren call.

—ooO0Ooo—

The moon was just appearing in the sky as Nathan left his office for the night, locking its door behind him. Stepping down onto the road, he breathed deeply, taking in the bite of the night air and letting it fill his lungs with its crispness. He glanced both ways, up and down the street, surveying his town one last time before heading home, the satisfaction of a good day's work behind him.

A glow caught his eye, his subconscious registering it as coming from a place it never came from at this time of night even as he turned sharply on his heel, peering down the road.

Was that a light on in the church? At this hour?

There was no mistaking the muted glow showing through the windows on the town-facing side of the church, and he moved swiftly towards it, senses sharpening. He took the steps leading up to the doors cautiously, keeping his boots silent. A wild critter rustled in the grass nearby, but a quick glance showed it was a small hedgehog and he returned his attention back to the schoolhouse. At the double doors, he paused, keeping his head out of sight, well below the frames of the small windows set in them. Not a sound was to be heard from the interior.

His fingers slid to the service revolver strapped at his waist, muscles poised. Ready to draw, he slowly turned the doorknob and eased the door open a fraction. He put his eye to the crack, peering inside . . . and his hand fell away from his revolver in the same instant.

Still guarded despite what he'd glimpsed, he stepped inside and pulled the door just barely shut after him, keeping the cool night air from blowing in.

The interior was already unpleasantly cold. There was a lamp lit on the corner of the big wooden desk that dominated the front of the room and in the circle of soft light that its flame cast, a woman was visible, her head down on the desk in front of her. He would know that hair, those beautiful features, anywhere.

"Elizabeth . . . ?" he whispered, warily glancing around. Nothing seemed out of place. There was no response from the recumbent figure. Concern heightening, he moved fast across the floorboards to her side.

Her back rose and fell with deep, even breaths and he realized that Elizabeth was alive and breathing, just sound asleep. Relief coursed through him. But how on earth had she ended up asleep here, still clad in her day clothes, rose colored coat over the back of her chair? And why? All he could assume was that her fall into slumber had not been planned. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes and it had him more than a little concerned. She was starting to look like she hadn't slept in weeks.

He crouched beside her, looking into her sleeping face. Her features were lax and unguarded in repose, sleep holding her in its thrall. Her hair was slipping out of its pins, strands sprawling around her on the desk and across her cheeks. So beautiful. His hand yearned to brush the soft hair off her sleeping face, but he restrained himself.

The problem-solver in him reasserted itself and he rose silently to his full height, weighing his next step. It would be so easy reach down and shake her awake. Letting her stay there was not an option. It was too cold, she was in a neck-crick inducing position, and Laura would be worried sick. There was another option, but . . .

Torn between propriety and a desire to guard her rare sleep at all costs, Nathan hesitated beside her, his fingers soundlessly drumming on the corner of the desk. He started to reach out a hand. Stopped.

He couldn't do it. He just didn't have it in him to wake her, not when she was finally getting some sleep, and sound sleep, by the looks of it.

Silently, he draped her coat around her thin shoulders, easing it over her, his fingers appreciating the softness of its wool blend. He bent to her, lifting her pliant, sleeping form in his arms with a gentleness that was painfully slow. One wrong move and she would wake. He moved with exquisite caution. But she never stirred.

He nudged the front door open with the toe of his boot and exited, turning sideways to ease his coat-bundled armful of precious cargo through the opening.

Down the front steps of the church the Mountie carried his lady, draped across his arms, the moon alone witness to the staggering sight in all its stark and silent beauty as it gilded them with a silvery cloak.

—ooO0Ooo—

And through moonlit streets, the Mountie carried the Schoolteacher . . .

She was cool and soft and light in his arms, her body folded bonelessly inside the strength of their supporting frame, heavy with sleep against his heart. Heavy, but not heavy enough. Cool, when she should have been warm.

This close to her, it was painfully obvious that all was not right with her. Too light. Too cold.

Wrapped securely inside her coat, her head drowsed against his shoulder, her long skirts trailing over his arm to flutter in the night breeze. His warm breath fanned her cheek as he would tilt his head down toward her to examine the sleeping countenance pressed into his shoulder, her head on a slow downwards trajectory across his shoulder, her lips a shadowed bow, lashes fanned out in a dark half-circle, her breathing slow and light and soundless.

And so it was that the Mountie of Hope Valley carried the widow of his predecessor through the moonlit, deserted streets of his town, his outline tall and grey against the backdrop of night, hers limp and draping between his arms.

. . . but a close observer — had there been any watching at this late hour which found most inhabitants sound asleep in their beds — might have noted how the woman's hand seemed to curl around the lapel of his uniform, her cold fingers seeking the warmth of his selfless heart even in her sleep. And a close observer might also have noted how the strapping Mountie's arms tightened protectively as the woman's drifting head finally completed its journey and her forehead came to rest against the warmth of the crook of his neck. It couldn't be said for certain whether or not the Mountie rested his head against her hair for a unsteady beat, but one could be forgiven for thinking so as shadows were known to play tricks on the eye.

Or perhaps it was that they revealed truths too conflicted for the light of day. Truths that only flickered around the edges of sunlight, shone clearly at night.

—ooO0Ooo—

Elizabeth awoke in the middle of the night, hazy memories of strong arms that carried her under a full moon and a prevailing warmth that held the cold of night at bay, slipping in and out around the periphery of her dreams.

She saw another scene, flickering as if by winking candlelight . . . Laura's ever-calm presence, hovering watchfully from the doorway of her bedroom before joining Nathan, one on either side of her bed . . . her shoes being removed and thick bed covers being pulled up over her . . .

Then a whisper of masculine lips, warm, firm, ghosting across her forehead, there and gone in a breath, so fast she couldn't be sure it had happened at all or if it was a figment of some disturbed — no, secure, warm, safe — dream.

And a broken whisper, slow and rough against her forehead. "I love you."

It couldn't be real. Could it?

—ooO0Ooo—

And despite the lateness of the hour, despite the quivering heartbeat and emotional turmoil of the dreamlike impressions that were causing havoc within her, Elizabeth got out of bed and went to her writing table. And with the memory of their library fight weighing like a stone on her shoulders, Elizabeth tiptoed in a moonlit dart up the road in her bare feet and left a note tucked into the jamb of his front door with two words on it. It read simply: I'm sorry.

The next night, she opened her front door to find a covered basket of food on her porch with a note laying on top. It had just one word written on it. In Nathan's distinctive, masculine hand, it read: Eat.

It took her less than a minute to reach his door, the basket heavy on her arm, her breathing tight, shallow, wispy. It took him less than that by half to open the door at her tremulous knock.

He seemed to still when he saw her, his gaze flickering briefly to the basket on her arm. She prayed he couldn't see how her legs shook beneath her.

She tried to tell him that she couldn't accept the basket. She tried to say that it was unnecessary.

But Nathan Grant didn't say a word. He took the basket from her, his fingers warm against her cold arm, and purposefully walked her back to her front steps where he silently pressed her down onto the top step, his hands firm on her shoulders. Her weakened legs gave way without protest.

He set the basket down on the porch beside her and opened it. The hinge of the woven cover creaked sharply in the silence, but there was no reaction from him. Reaching inside, he pulled out a handful of food and, with slow deliberateness, handed her half a sandwich, bursting with seared chicken and ripe tomatoes, crisp lettuce and wedges of soft cheese, all cocooned between crusty slices of fresh bread. She could still smell the yeast. There was a scanty brush of fingers as she accepted it from him and it was all she could do not to lean into his hand. She craved warmth — and warmth seemed to emanate from him.

But he pulled back immediately and settled his length on the step below her, his long legs stretched out before him, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped back as he watched her unflinchingly. His eyes were fathomless in the settling dusk of the evening. The intent visible both on his face and in his figure was clear. He wasn't leaving until she'd eaten.

So she ate and he watched, not a word spoken; the flavors breaking over her tongue in a cacophony so delicious she nearly closed her eyes against the swell of delight. It was as if her taste buds had come back to life and were bursting to tell her every flavor and texture. She could have eaten all night and still not been satisfied. But the basket eventually ran empty, and he ceased his silent watching, standing to gather the empty dishes into the basket. Her eyes followed him as he stood, his tall outline dwarfing her seated one.

She wanted to say thank you. She wanted to make sure he knew her apology was specifically about the fight at the library — but somehow, she knew he knew — she wanted to ask about arms that laid her down with such broken gentleness and lips that brushed her forehead and whispered fracturedly of love, but she couldn't find the words and they seemed out of place in this interlude of silence.

Nathan departed as silently as he'd arrived, his hair black as night in the deepening dusk. And Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and shivered as the twinkle of stars began to appear in the firmament above.

The lantern burning outside her door threw a golden halo of luminosity over the steps. But it was no substitute for the warmth of Nathan Grant's presence.

—ooO0Ooo—

That night, Elizabeth Thornton slept like she hadn't slept in months.

—ooO0Ooo—

Author's Note: Hey, everybody! I hope you liked the latest installment in this Nathan & Elizabeth Saga. This is the longest chapter, by far, that I've written yet for this particular story! I got the "carrying her through streets bathed in moonlight" image in my head and couldn't shake it. It caught my imagination. So I decided to build a chapter around it. :-) I lost HOURS of writing for this chapter with a single keystroke and that set me back quite a bit in getting this chapter out, but thanks be to God, it finally came together. And I learned a lesson, so . . . all's well than ends well? ;)

A couple quick notes: Utilizing the creative license of fiction, I've decided to regress little Jack's age a bit in my story. Here, he is a "younger" toddler both in appearance and in development than he was at the end of Season 8 on That Show. Perhaps by about a year . . . ?

Some important steps taken in this chapter between Nathan & Elizabeth . . . ! And also between RM and Elizabeth. It always bothered me how E never showed any reaction to RM in That Show when RM said those words to her about listening to LJ play next door, so I decided to bring it back with a "mirroring line" of sorts and have it be addressed, finally.

As for Gunner and the ranch; I've long thought Hope Valley's "universe" needed some rural expanding. So I'll be working scenes from out on the ranch into this story as I can.

I love forehead kisses, so I decided to do a slightly different take on it here. ;-)

I'm so glad that the last chapter (#6) seemed to go over well. It really gave me issues while writing it, LOL. Several of you expressed how ecstatic you were that Nathan bought Bill's land. Me, too! :-) And to those who were pleased with more glimpses of Lucona; you're so welcome! I honestly enjoy writing them. I'm also enjoying writing Faith and Gunner, and I hope you guys are enjoying reading them!

I decided it was time to bring Elizabeth's maternal side into the story. She was kind of a — how does one describe her parenting on That Show? — lol, well, she was a fill-in-the-blank parent and I would like to remedy that a bit in my story. After all, if she's going to be having Nathan's babies down the road, we need her to be a bit more of a "present" mama. :-) I need her to be a tender and involved mother, with LJ . . . and her future babies. Her domestic side came into play here, too; something else I always thought sorely lacking on That Show.

Last but definitely not least — My big, warm thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I am BLESSED.