A Heart's Blessing - Linda Ford

1

Willow Creek, a town in the Porcupine Hills of Alberta. The year—1887

This was his chance to start over. Forget the past. Put it all behind him.

Ryder Remington stood in the middle of the business he’d recently acquired in the little town of Willow Creek, Western Canada, where he knew no one and, apart from dealing with customers, planned to keep it that way. Even Cody, his brother and partner, had decided he needed to be alone for now as well, and had signed on with a ranch.

Ryder looked around. Plenty of shelves for his tools. A nice wide worktable. Three saddle stands so he could work on more than one project at a time.

Boxes and crates crowded the floor at present. He’d soon get them sorted out.

In the meantime, he needed coffee and breakfast, in that order. Roomy living quarters were attached to the back of the shop. Two bedrooms, a large living area. Much more than he needed. So far, he’d used the bed and the stove.

He crossed to the living quarters and grabbed the coffeepot.

The sound of a child’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Sent his heart crashing against his ribs with enough force to make him gasp. Would he never get that sound out of his head? The cheerful tune of a happy child at play.

He shook the coffeepot and gritted his teeth. Little Myra was gone. He’d nicknamed her Merry because she was exactly that.

Despite his noisy efforts to clear his brain, the sound continued.

He banged the dipper against the pot as he filled it with water then slammed the pot to the stove, doing his best to make that sound go away. That seemed to work, and he let his chest muscles relax and released his breath.

The sound came again. A song he’d never heard before. Something about stars and sunshine, trees and flowers.

He returned to the shop side of the building. The song faded. Good. He’d eradicated it from his brain. Once more. How long would he be forced to deal with unwelcome memories?

The aroma of coffee drew him back to the living quarters and he hurried to fill his cup. The bread he’d bought at the bakery/café next door would be his breakfast. He sliced the loaf, slathered on jam, and sat down to eat.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

At the notes of the song tiptoeing through the air, the bite of bread caught halfway down his throat. He coughed until tears wet his cheeks.

He hated tears. Had cried his last. He swiped his face on his sleeve.

“Sally,” someone whispered. “You’re not ’posed to be here.”

Two voices. Two children. It wasn’t his memories. Thank goodness. He did not want them haunting him here where he hoped to escape their constant demand. The last year and some had been torture like he’d never known. First Myra and Mirabelle, and then Cody’s troubles. Starting over was the best thing for both him and his younger brother. Though by now, at twenty-eight, he had expected to be settled like an old married man.

He crossed to the open window in time to see a little boy half dragging a protesting little girl away, past the neighbor’s garden and through the back door.

Ryder leaned against the window frame as pain shafted through him. The little girl looked to be about the age his Myra would be by now. Merry Myra and her mother. Gone. He had to move on. Start a new life.

Yet his gaze lingered on the door the children had gone through. To hear that singing brought so many memories to Ryder. Sweet, sweet memories that warred with his agony. One thing he knew. Life wasn’t fair. He and Cody both knew that.

The door he stared at opened and a young woman stepped outside, carrying a basin of something that she took to the chicken yard and tossed over the fence. The chickens raced to it, clucking.

Ryder’s attention was drawn to a movement toward the house. The children had followed the woman and joined her at the fence. She squatted down to speak to them, laughing at something one said, brushing her hand over the head of the little girl who leaned against her.

Just as Myra used to do.

He glanced at his palms, thinking he must have been holding one of his leather carving knives. His hands were empty, but his fingernails had left a deep impression.

Grabbing his coffee and plate of bread, he hurried back to the shop. Work would help him forget.

Sometime later he had two