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Dara Rose stood looking at the marshal and the dog, feeling oddly stricken, a state this man seemed to inflict upon her at every encounter. She might have been the one braving the frigid weather outside, instead of Clay, the way her breath stalled in the back of her throat.

With a smile, Clay took off his hat, dusting off the snow with his other hand, and nodded. “Afternoon, Mrs. Nolan,” he said.

His voice was deep and quiet, his manner unhurried.

Dara Rose didn’t answer, merely inclined her head briefly in response.

Harriet, meanwhile, forgot the doll she’d been so fascinated by until now, leaped nimbly off the pickle barrel and slowly approached the newcomers.

“Does that dog bite?” she asked forthrightly, studying the animal closely before tilting her head back to look up at Clay.

“I can’t rightly say, one way or the other,” Clay replied honestly. “He and I just took up with each other last night, so we’re not all that well acquainted yet. Offhand, though, I’d say you oughtn’t to pet old Chester until we know a little more about his nature.”

Harriet smiled, enchanted. “Hullo, Chester,” she said.

Chester looked her over, but stayed close to Clay’s side.

“I don’t normally allow dogs in my store,” Philo said. Then, with a smile and a genial spreading of his hands, “But I’ll make an exception for you, Marshal.”

“I’m obliged,” Clay said. “It’s a fair hike back to the jailhouse and I’d rather not leave him alone there, anyhow.”

Dara Rose opened her mouth, closed it again. When it came to Clay McKettrick, she was as bad as Harriet with the doll, prone to ogle and be struck dumb with awe.

As if to prove himself a gentleman, Chester ambled away from Clay to nestle down in the warm sawdust in front of the stove. With a sigh of grateful contentment, the dog closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Harriet giggled. “He must be tired,” she said.

“I reckon he is at that,” Clay agreed. “I think old Chester traveled a hard road before he found his way to me.”

Dara Rose had never envied a dog before, but she did in that moment. She’d traveled a hard road, too, she and the girls, but it hadn’t led to a handsome, steady-minded man who was probably able to handle just about anything.

She cleared her throat, fixing to make another attempt at speaking, but before a word came to her, Harriet had reached out and taken Clay’s hand, tugging him in the direction of the display window.

“Look,” she said reverently, pointing at the doll.

Dara Rose finally found her voice, but it didn’t hold up for long. “Harriet—”

Clay lifted the child easily, holding her in one arm, so she was at eye level with the splendid toy.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Harriet murmured, wonderstruck again.

“Not as pretty as you are,” Clay told her. His gaze sought Dara Rose, found her, and brought yet another embarrassing blush to her cheeks. His expression was solemn, as if he wanted to ask some question but knew it would be improper to do so.

“If I sold my hair for two dollars and fifty cents,” Harriet prattled on, wide-eyed, seemingly as at home in Clay’s arms as she would have been in Parnell’s, “I could take her home with me for good. Do you know of a place where folks buy hair?”

Dara Rose closed her eyes briefly, mortified.

“Can’t say as I do,” Clay replied affably. He was still looking at Dara Rose, though; she could feel it.

She opened her eyes, watched, tongue-tied with misery, as he gently set Harriet back on her feet.

“I’d name her Florence,” Harriet continued. “Don’t you think that’s a pretty name? Florence?”

Clay allowed as how it was a very nice name.

Dara Rose realized she was staring and looked quickly away, only to have her gaze collide with Mr. Bickham’s. A benevolent smirk wreathed the storekeeper’s round face.

“Looks like the snow’s letting up a little,” Bickham said, with a glance at the window. “Maybe the marshal and his dog here could see you and little Harriet home safe while there’s a lull.”

Dara Rose needed to get back to her place, in case Edrina was there or on her way, but it wouldn’t be wise for her