Women are indoctrinated from infancy about beauty. We feel we must be superwoman and have it all: beauty, brains, a good work ethic, great with children, a good cook. The list is long, isn’t it? I think it’s particularly hard for women to accept the unconditional love God offers. We are so used to being held to such a high standard—and failing—that we feel we can never measure up.

What a blessing when we realize that we don’t have to. God loves us, warts and all. We are safe in his arms. Safe to tell him our dreams, our fears, our failings. Safe to relax in his uncondi- tional love.

I love hearing from you! E-mail me anytime at colleen@ colleencoble.com.

Love, Colleen

One

The town of Larson, Texas, was busy on this warm February day. Cowboys in their dusty boots eyed the women attired in their best dresses strolling the boardwalks. Margaret O’Brien strode down the boardwalk in front of the feed store toward the mercantile. Things seemed to change daily with new stores sprouting like winter wheat. It seemed daily more cowmen arrived to Larson, drawn by the lush grazing land and the water in the Red River.

Pa should be around here somewhere. She nodded to the ladies clustered in front of the general store, the familiar discomfort washing over her. Why couldn’t she look like them? No matter how hard Margaret tried, she remained what she was: too tall and more at home with her hands gripping horse reins than a teacup. She ducked into the store and inhaled the aroma of cinnamon, bootstrap, sweat, and pickles. She busied herself with collecting material for their housekeeper, who had a bee in her bonnet about making curtains.

A cluster of women were talking in hushed whispers about the latest Zulu atrocity in Africa. These early months of 1879 had been full of the bloody battles. Hearing such things always made Margaret wince, remembering her brother’s death at the hands of the Sioux. At least a national monument had been established earlier this year in memory of those who fell during the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

The women fell silent when Margaret paused. “Good morn- ing,” she said in as confident a voice as she could muster. “Anyone know what kind of material to buy for curtains? I thought this was pretty.”

When she held up a lilac-flowered material, one of the women tittered, a tiny blonde Margaret had never seen before. Her face burned, and she put the bolt of fabric back.

“How about this one?” a woman said behind her.

Margaret’s heart leaped at the sound of her friend’s voice, and she whirled with a smile. “Lucy, I didn’t know you were in town today. Should you be riding in a wagon in your condition?”

The blond woman laughed again at Margaret’s indelicate mention of Lucy’s pregnancy. Lucy linked arms with Margaret. “I feel fine. You like this fabric? I think Inez will love it.”

Margaret eyed the red-and-white plaid. “It’s a little . . . loud.”

“Cheerful,” Lucy corrected, smiling. Her head high, she led Margaret out of the group. “Silly twits. Now don’t start moaning about how they don’t like you. They don’t know you.” Lucy shook her head. “And they won’t bother to get to know you if you don’t take a little more care when you come to town.”

Margaret smoothed her hands on her rough skirt. They had come after cattle feed, and she had work to do in the barn when she got home, so she hadn’t bothered to change. She’d nearly put on a nicer dress. “It was too much bother since I had to help load feed.”

“It’s worth it, Margaret.” Lucy glanced at the watch pinned to her dress. “Nate is going to be looking for me.” She hugged Margaret. “I’m so glad I saw you. You’re coming to the party, aren’t you?”

“Sure. I’m not going to dance, but I’ll come keep you company.” Smiling, Margaret watched her friend waddle away. Dear Lucy. She had barreled past Margaret’s prickly exterior, and they’d become fast friends. Lucy was easy to trust. She was all heart.

Margaret had her purchases put on account, then stepped out into the sunshine.

Cattlemen had driven herds of cattle through here more than an hour ago, but the dust and odor still lingered in the air. Her father motioned to her from in front of the stagecoach station. Calvin stood close behind him.

She started toward them, but the man beside him arrested her gaze. He was tall, even taller than her father, which meant he had to be at least six foot three or four inches. She guessed he was in his early thirties. The man’s Stetson was pushed back on his head, revealing shiny brown hair, and his bronzed face was chiseled with planes and angles that spoke of confidence and determination. He cast a lazy grin her way.

Immediately, Margaret’s hackles rose. That kind of self- assurance—arrogance, really—always reminded her of her uncle. She’d had to assert herself strenuously with him around the ranch because he thought a woman’s place was in the kitchen, not in the stockyard. This man was the same type, the sort of man who would demand to be catered to and obeyed. No one who looked that strong and proud would listen to a woman.

She forced a smile. This man was probably nothing like her uncle. But her trepidation slowed her steps. Her father motioned her forward, though, and she reluctantly moved to join them.

Her father put his hand on her shoulder. “Here’s my daughter, Margaret.”

The man’s gaze swept from the top of her head down to the dusty boots just peeking out from underneath her serviceable skirt, and Margaret’s lips tightened. People in Larson were used to her attire, but this man’s eyes widened. He’d probably never seen a woman dressed for ranch work. She wore a man’s chambray shirt, and her red hair hung over her shoulder in a long braid. The bits of cow manure on her skirt and boots didn’t add much to the general picture either. He’d really be shocked if he saw her in her britches when she was helping with the cattle.

She lifted her head and stared him down. His dark eyes betrayed none of his thoughts. She didn’t think she’d ever seen eyes that shade. Like a buckeye nut they were, a rich brown color. Heavy brows accented the strong planes of his face.

Margaret thrust out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. And you are . . . ?”

He could have stared over the top of her head without taking notice of her at all. But he didn’t. He gazed straight into her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat as she felt the magnetic pull of the man.

“Daniel Cutler.” His handshake was firm and as self-confi- dent as his appearance.

Margaret pulled away her hand. “You been in town long, Mr. Cutler?” He’d given his name but not his business here in Larson. Pa seemed almost proprietorial toward him, but she clamped her teeth against the questions clamoring to escape.

“He just got in today,” her father put in eagerly. “He’s our new foreman.”

“New foreman?” Margaret’s heart dipped like a bronco about to arch its back to the sky. “We don’t need a new foreman, Pa. I can handle things by myself. I’ve spent the last ten years of my life proving it.”

Their ranch hand Calvin straightened as well. “That ain’t right, O’Brien. You said if I did a good job, you’d promote me. This shavetail”—he gestured toward Cutler—“ain’t what the ranch needs.”

Her father glared at Calvin. “Get that feed loaded and keep your nose out of my business.” Her father skewered her with an even sterner stare. “Now, Margaret, I told you it’s time you let go of some of these notions about running the ranch by your- self. I’m getting too old to be of much help, and I’d sure like for you to set your mind to finding a husband and giving me some grandchildren.”

Her father’s gaze traveled over Margaret’s apparel, and dis- pleasure shone in his eyes. “Though what man would have you when you make no attempt to look like a woman is another con- cern altogether.”

She had begun to find her composure, but at her father’s words, the blood rushed to her face. They didn’t need to air their disagreements in front of this stranger. Pa had never understood how his words burned her spirit like a brand. She never let on how he hurt her, and she didn’t now. She narrowed her eyes at this stranger who was set to disrupt her life.

Daniel Cutler seemed to be taking it all in with interest, and a small smile played around those firm lips of his. He probably agreed wholeheartedly with her father’s assessment. Like all the rest of the men in her acquaintance, he would be looking for some dainty young thing with a simpering smile and golden curls.

She tossed her head and glared at him. His smile faltered, and she felt a stab of satisfaction. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing,” she told him. “But we really don’t need a foreman. Not you and not Calvin.”

“The thing’s done,” her father said. “Toss your belongings into our wagon, Daniel. We’ll head back to the ranch as soon as we get this feed loaded.”

She caught her breath at her father’s blatant dismissal. “Pa . . .”

He held up his hand. “Enough, Margaret. Daniel is here. Zip your tongue and help get the wagon loaded.”

She would not cry. Biting her lip, she walked to the back of the wagon.

Daniel threw his satchel into the wagon. He didn’t wait to be asked but went to the pile of feed sacks and began loading them. His muscular arms handled the heavy bags with ease. For a moment Margaret stared at the muscles in his back as they rip- pled beneath his shirt. In spite of her dislike of the man, he was a fine specimen of masculinity. Other women strolling by paused and cast surreptitious glances his way. Glances he seemed not to notice.

She helped load the sacks, but he threw the heavy bags into the back twice as quickly, with not even a labored breath. She bristled at his strength. He was probably trying to show her up in front of her father. She’d teach him she didn’t need his help—not for loading feed and not for running the ranch.

She and Daniel worked side by side for several minutes until all she could smell was burlap. Daniel tossed the last of the feed into the wagon and turned to her with a grin. “What now, Boss?”

Boss. The way he said the word with a hint of mockery made her grimace. Just as she opened her mouth to put him in his place, shots rang out down the street. Five men, their revolvers blasting at anything that moved, rushed out of the bank and mounted their horses. The horses came thundering toward Margaret.

“Get down!” Daniel tackled her to the dusty ground.

The breath puffed out of her as he fell on top of her. She strug- gled to free herself, but his strong body kept her pinned beneath him. She could smell the clean scent of soap underneath the scent of his skin. Never in her life had she felt so helpless and dependent. And protected. The word whispered through her brain with a gentle allure. 

Wrapping paper lay strewn around the floor in a happy crumple of color. Tess Thomas handed her cousin one last gift and suppressed a smile. Nat would blush when she saw the filmy negligee Tess had bought. But Tess knew if anyone would look great in the gown, it was her cousin. It was something Tess would never purchase for her- self. But then what need would she have of a honeymoon gown anyway?

While Natalie began to rip paper with abandon, Tess glanced around the packed parlor of their grandmother’s old house. Their friends had all shown up for the bridal shower and there wasn’t space for another chair. A few women even sat on the floor with their backs propped against the wall. That was what Tess loved about the small town of Smitten, Vermont. Neighbors were like family. And they’d all pulled together in amazing ways this past year as they worked to put Smitten on the map as a town based on tourism—a romantic destination, in fact. There were so many new businesses, including a big hotel that had taken over the old lumber mill.

Their Great-aunt Violet bustled in with a tray of cookies and tea. “Tess, dear,” she whispered. “I’m not sure these glu- ten free things are worth eating.”

The cookies were as lopsided as Violet’s red lipstick. The color of that lipstick had never changed over the years—it was the same orangey red that clashed pitifully with Violet’s dyed red hair.

Tess took the most crumbly cookie and took a bite. “They’re good, Aunt Violet. And Natalie will appreciate that you went to the trouble.”

Her aunt’s smile brightened. “I’m so glad, honey. You always were my favorite niece!” She winked dramatically.

Tess’s sister Clare took the tray. “Let me help you with that, Aunt Violet.” She circled the room with the tray in hand, and to their credit, most guests took a cookie.

Natalie took a break from the gifts to nibble on a cookie and glanced around. “Where’s Mia?”

“In the attic,” Grandma Rose said. “You girls always loved to play up there, remember?”

This three-story Victorian was special. Tess, her sisters, and their cousins had loved exploring the attic when they came to visit their grandmother and great-aunts. The grand old home’s welcome enveloped visitors the moment they stepped onto the polished walnut floors.

Tess turned toward the hall. “You stay here with your guests. I’ll check on her, Natalie.”

When Tess reached the bottom of the stairs, Natalie’s adopted daughter, Mia, was descending. The six-year-old had a purple boa around her neck and a red velvet dress, the hem trailing on the hardwood. She’d found some lipstick from somewhere—probably Violet’s, judging by the color—and her small white teeth gleamed behind the smear of orange.

Mia reached the bottom of the staircase and twirled. “Look at me, Tess!”

A wave of love swept over Tess. If only she could have a daughter like Mia someday. “Smashing,” she said in genuine admiration. “That’s an unusual necklace.” She leaned down to examine the tarnished metal and realized it held a pair of dog tags. “Where did you get it?”

Mia looked down at her feet and shuffled. “In the attic.” “Was it in the trunk you were allowed to be in?”
“No.” Mia peeked up at her. She held up her arm to show

a bracelet. “My bracelet fell off and went down a hole. I put my hand in to get it and found the necklace too.” Red stained Mia’s cheeks. “Should I put it back?”

Tess put her hand on Mia’s soft hair. “No, it’s fine, honey. I just wondered where you found them. I’ve never seen them before.”

Natalie appeared in the doorway from the parlor. “Is something wrong?” She glanced at her daughter.

“Not really. I was looking at something Mia found in the attic.”

A frown crouched between Natalie’s eyes. “Are those dog tags? What on earth . . . there haven’t been any soldiers in our family, have there, Tess?” She held out her hand. “Let me see them, Mia.”

Mia’s lower lip quivered, but she took off the dog tags and handed them over. “I didn’t hurt them.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure you didn’t,” Natalie said, reaching out a reassuring hand to embrace the girl. Lifting the tag to the light, she studied it. “David Hutchins.”

Her grandmother spoke from behind them. “David Hutchins? Where did you hear that name?”

Tess turned to see the color leave her grandmother’s face.

“On these dog tags Mia found upstairs in the attic.” Beyond Grandma Rose, she saw Aunt Violet turn pale and reach out to steady herself on the wall.

Grandma Rose grabbed the doorframe. “With David’s name?”

For a moment Tess thought her grandmother might faint. She rushed to her side. “Grandma, are you all right?”

Her grandmother wetted her lips. “I’m fine. I’m just try- ing to understand this. David died in the Korean conflict. As far as I know, his dog tags were never recovered. Neither was his body.”

“See for yourself,” Natalie said, joining them, hand outstretched.

Grandma Rose clutched the dog tags, then held them to the light. “Mia, where did you find these?”

“In the attic.” Mia’s voice wobbled. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not in trouble, honey,” Tess said, embracing her. “Grandma is just surprised they were there.” She stared at her grandmother, who was as pale as the white blouse she wore. “Who was David Hutchins?”

Her grandmother was staring at the dog tags. She blinked rapidly. “My fiancé.”

Natalie frowned. “I’m confused. What about Grandpa Martin?”

Grandma Rose bit her lip. “I loved him, of course, but he wasn’t my first love.” She hesitated. “First love is special.” Her face took on a dreamy expression. “He used to call me his Betty Boop.”

Though it hurt even to imagine her grandmother loving another man before her own grandfather, Tess loved a good mystery, and this smelled like the best kind. “If he died in the war, then how did these dog tags get in your attic?”

“I don’t know. It makes no sense.”

“Could the military have sent them back to you?” Natalie asked.

“They didn’t. I would have kept them close. They wouldn’t be in the attic.”

“You’re sure he died?” Tess asked.

“Of course. The army notified his parents. I was there when they told us of his death.” She looked down. “It was the darkest day of my life.”

Darker than the day Grandpa died? Tess studied her grandmother’s face but didn’t ask the question.

“Did he live here in Smitten?” Natalie asked.

Grandma Rose nodded. “Over on Green Valley Road. In that big house where Ryan Stevenson lives now.”

Tess’s pulse kicked at Ryan Stevenson’s name. The handsome widower was a Saturday morning patron at her bookstore. Not that he’d ever noticed her.

“David’s family moved away after his death.” Her grand- mother’s voice broke, then she recovered her composure and managed a smile. “We’d better get back to our guests.”

Tess followed her back to the parlor, but her brain was whirling. What did it all mean?

#

The last guests had left and Tess and her sisters were picking up bits of confetti and wrapping paper from the floor. The older women had gone out to practice for Saturday night’s concert in the town square. Tess lifted the dog tags from the table and rattled them in her hands. “We have to get to the bottom of this,” she said.

Her mother, Anna, shook her head. At fifty, she was still trim and her skin was smooth and pink. Most people thought she was much younger. “It’s none of our concern, Tess. We shouldn’t be poking our nose into Mother’s business.”

“Something happened, and even Grandma has no idea what it was. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Her youngest sister, Zoe, dropped a dustpan full of con- fetti into a wastebasket. “I think Grandma deserves to know the truth. How could those tags have gotten there?”

Clare stopped sweeping. “Let’s think about this.” As the middle child, she was the reflective one, with her feet firmly planted on the ground. “It’s very strange.”

“Maybe he didn’t die in the war,” Tess suggested. “Maybe he came to town. What if Grandpa answered the door when he got here and didn’t let him see Grandma?”

“Now, Tess, I’m sure it was nothing so unpleasant,” Anna said. “I’m sure my mother isn’t interested anymore.”

“Of course she is! You saw how white she went. She must have loved him very much. And what if he’s still alive?” Tess could see it now. A handsome gentleman with white hair stepping out of a restored Roadster. Her grandmother’s face bright with happiness. “We could get them together again.”

“He’s probably married by now, even if he did survive the war,” Clare pointed out. “But you’re jumping to conclusions. It’s more likely that his parents left the tags here or some- thing. Maybe Aunt Violet or Aunt Petunia tucked them away so she wouldn’t be upset.”

“If that’s the case, then there’s no real mystery at all,” their mother said.

Tess was sure it wasn’t something that simple.

Clare’s thoughtful frown was back. “We’ll need to handle this very carefully. If he’s married, we back off without even talking to him, agreed?”

“He should know the truth,” Zoe said. “He should know Grandma thinks he died.”

“The truth isn’t always the best thing,” their mother said. “Not if it hurts someone.”

Zoe rolled her eyes but said nothing. Clare cut her gaze to the carpet.

Tess picked up more paper from the floor. “I’ll do an Internet search. It can’t hurt just to poke around a little.” Ryan’s face flashed into mind. “Maybe Ryan would let me explore his attic, see if there’s any information there.”

“I’m sure you’d like that,” Clare said, her voice teasing. “The most eligible bachelor in town.”

Heat flooded Tess’s cheeks. “I’m the last person he’d be interested in.” She grabbed a last cookie from the plate. She’d mooned over Ryan since high school, not that she would admit it to anyone. He had a way of making you feel like he was really listening, really paying attention to you. With two younger sisters, she sometimes felt her needs were forgotten.

“Now, honey, you put yourself down too much,” Anna scolded. “You look fine just the way you are.” Even as her mother said the words, she stared at the cookie in Tess’s hands. “That probably has two hundred calories in it, sweetie.”

Tess put the cookie back on the plate. She avoided Clare’s sympathetic glance and unbuttoned her too-tight jacket.

Chapter One of "Love Between the Lines" by Colleen Coble

She’d bought it for the shower with the intention of los- ing those fifteen pounds. What was it they said about good intentions?

“You’re beautiful, Tess. You just don’t see it,” Zoe said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And Ryan likes you. I can tell.”

If only Tess could believe it. “His wife was Miss Vermont. I’m hardly in that league.” She resisted reaching for the cookie again. “I’m just thinking that one time at the book- store, Ryan mentioned that he needed to clean the attic. Evidently the Hutchins family left a ton of boxes up there. Maybe he’d like some help cleaning it out.”

“Perfect. It might just take you awhile to go through them,” Clare said, grinning.

“Don’t go getting any ideas. This is strictly research. I’m not interested in Ryan.”

“Whatever you say.” Clare stood up straight and stretched. “Looks like we’ve finished up here. And I need coffee. Anyone want to go with me?”

Zoe got up. “Not me. I spend enough of my life in the coffee shop. I want to go to Ryan’s ice cream store.”

“I’ll go with you, Zoe,” Tess said. When her mother lifted a brow, she added, “If Ryan is there, I can ask him about look- ing through the attic.”

She followed her sisters out of the house and told herself their grandmother would thank them in the end.