His eyes were nearly black in the lavender twilight. Today was the first time since she’d seen him since December, the night of the Frasier mine explosion and fire when he’d registered in a flash of quick sharp impressions—tall, thick hair, snapping black eyes in a hard masculine face—but her impressions hadn’t been wrong.

He was dark and intense, hard and fierce, and nothing like her fair, blue-eyed fiancé, Sinclair Douglas.

Sinclair had left her in the middle of their engagement party to rush to the Frasier mine, even though he no longer worked for the Frasiers. She’d been hurt and furious and horrified, and she’d followed Sinclair out of the hotel and had begged him not to go, but Sinclair turned away even as she pleaded with him, and that was when she’d locked glances with the firefighter.

He’d heard her begging Sinclair. The firefighter had heard, she could tell, and he pitied her.

There was no reason for him to pity her.

Her chin had gone up and she’d thrown him a look of disdain because what else was she going to do? Cave? Cry? Break?

Never.

It had been a terrible night, and a horrific next day, and once everyone knew the engagement was over, a difficult Christmas and New Year. It had been months since the engagement party, and every time Ellie thought people had stopped talking about humiliation, she overheard someone whispering, “You know Ellie Burnett lost her fiancé to that scandalous Frasier heiress...”

She hated the chatter and speculation, but Marietta was a small town, and she supposed there weren’t a lot of things for people to discuss besides the weather—cold, cold, and more cold—so whenever someone did say something to her, or about her, she lifted her chin, and smiled, a cool, proud, brazen smile because, after all, there were worse things than gossip, and worse things in a failed engagement. Worse things than shame.

There was death and loss. Grief.

Ellie was five when her mother died and she didn’t remember her mother, but she remembered the grief. She remembered the longing, and the missing, and how the missing filled her, aching within her, a void that couldn’t be answered.

A void that wouldn’t be soothed.

The grief had been a constant growing up, and even though it had been years since she ached, it was still there, a quiet companion. A shadow. She found that she pushed herself just because she had to push to actually feel something. Emotions didn’t come easily to her, and she wasn’t sure if that was because she took after her Texan father, or if because grieving had hardened her, but it probably wasn’t important. The only thing important now, was saving the Burnett Ranch.

“Do you know what my father wants you to show me?” she asked after a long minute had passed.

“I do.”

She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “Does this have to do with property on Bramble?”

Thomas’s dark head turned, his intense gaze narrowed on her face. “You know.”

“I know he’s determined to see me settled. But I’m not interested—”

“How can you say that if you haven’t seen it?”

“I’d hate life in Marietta.”

“You wouldn’t be lonely.”

“I wouldn’t have freedom.”

He sighed and shook his head, expression grim. “I’ll pick you up Sunday in front of the church, after the eleven a.m. service.”

“What about the Irishman?” her father asked the next evening, breaking the silence.

Ellie’s brow lifted. She looked up from her needlework. “What about him?” she asked, determined not to be short tempered even though sewing was one of her least favorite things to do. She wouldn’t sew for anyone, and had adamantly refused from mending and doing even decorative needlework, but his favorite nightshirt had lost the second button and she couldn’t wait for Mrs. Baxter to fix it. Time was in short supply for everything these days.

“Why isn’t he a candidate?” her father asked mildly.

“Stop making it sound like an election. I’m not running for office, nor is he. I just want someone healthy and strong enough to do the work, and smart enough to know who is the boss.” She gave him a level look. “And I think we both know Mr. Sheenan would not allow that.”

“Have you asked him?”

She snorted. “He’s already accused me of ‘wearing the trousers.’ I certainly have no desire to provide him additional ammunition.”

“You don’t think he could be a good husband?”

“No.” She checked the button and it seemed secure so she tied a knot and bit off the thread. “How can you like him, Papa?”

“He’s smart, strong, young, ambitious, and honest.”

“You failed to mention haughty, big-headed, egotistical—”

“I’ve been called all of those things, nearly all my life.”

“Hmph.” She rose and gave the shirt a shake. “I’ll put this back in your wardrobe. It’s ready to wear.