High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2) by Simone Beaudelaire

is hurting because Wesley is hurting. Those two still have a deep connection.”
    “Bah,” Mrs. Spencer scoffed unsympathetically, “that connection should have been cut years ago, the first time Fulton lowered his trousers for another woman.”
    “Mother!” Becky exclaimed, aghast at Mrs. Spencer's insensitivity.
    A flood of images tumbled through Allison's mind; Wesley kissing Samantha at their wedding, stretching out in bed with Samantha, holding Samantha. All the years that should have gone to
her
, had gone to that woman. And now, in her death, Samantha had dealt yet another blow to her rival by breaking Wesley's heart.
    Sickened, Allison wrenched herself from the sofa and stumbled up the stairs.

    “Well, Mother,” Becky said, sarcasm dripping from her normally gentle voice. “You certainly handled
that
well. Why can't you stop going on about Wesley? He's certainly more than paid for his mistake.”
    “But has he learned from it?” Mrs. Spencer asked, turning to her older daughter, undaunted by the disapproving tone. “Will he expect Allison to fall into his arms now that he's free? I don't want her to do that.”
    “You'd rather she remain a spinster, then?” Becky asked. “It's a blessing to them both that Samantha is gone. I know that's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. She should have been in an institution, not married. It's only by the grace of God their daughter is normal.”
    “If she's even his daughter,” Mrs. Spencer pointed out. “I think she must not be. Mrs. Fulton is more than half-crazy herself. A baby from her son and
that woman
would not have been so healthy.”
    “Mother!” Becky protested, though in the back of her mind she acknowledged there was a lot of truth in what Mrs. Spencer was saying. “That's enough. Don't say anything else about Wesley
or
Samantha. You're going to hurt your daughter even worse.”
    “You know, I don't understand you,” her mother said, her mouth turning down into a sneer. “How can you forgive Wesley so easily, after what he did?”
    “I don't know, Mother,” Rebecca replied. “He has always seemed like such a little boy to me. I'm not surprised he's made some mistakes. You know he's only twenty-four, same as Allison. When he did… what he did, he was barely nineteen. That's the age for making foolish decisions.”
    Becky glanced at her mother's face. As always, the question lingered, unasked, in Mrs. Spencer's narrowed eyes, the tension around her mouth. But Becky wouldn't answer. She never had.
    “I'm going to go upstairs now too. I need to be sure Allison is all right. And it's late. Good night, Mother.”
    “Good night, Rebecca,” Mrs. Spencer replied, her gaze still sharp as a razor on her daughter's retreating back.

    Wesley passed the rest of the week in a daze. On Sunday, he somehow found clothes and pulled them on. He'd managed to give Melissa a bath and dress her, though her hair was a mess. He knew nothing about long hair. That was one thing Samantha had handled well. They'd eaten oatmeal again and now were walking hand in hand to church. He'd been there earlier in the week for the funeral. Samantha, wearing her favorite pink dress, her hair spread around her, surrounded by golden mums, had been laid to rest in a service which was breathtaking in its tender beauty. Poor Samantha had been treated to more kindness in death than she'd ever received in life. And then, after the funeral, the heavens had unleashed a torrent of snow, which had buried the whole town. He'd held and rocked Melissa as the storm raged, and then tried to put her down in her own bed again, only to be awakened by her crying over and over throughout the night. About three in the morning, he'd given up and taken her back to his bed. And there they'd succumbed to utter exhaustion until dawn woke them, light sparkling on the surface of the three foot snow drifts piled against the sides of buildings.
    He carried Melissa through the messy streets to the