Free Undercover Bride by Margaret Brownley

had left for the day.
    She followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen where she found Toby at the table by himself, an empty plate pushed aside.
    “Good morning,” she said, ruffling his hair. Today his thinking cap was missing, and he was busy sketching with a charcoal pencil.
    “Where’s your father and sister?”
    “Pa left for work and Elise is out back in the tree house,” he said without looking up from his sketch.
    She poured herself a cup of coffee from the metal pot on the stove. “You have a tree house?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “How is it possible to have a tree house without a tree?” She’d yet to see a tree since coming to the Territory. If she ever spotted one in this arid land, she’d be tempted to hug it.
    “You don’t need a tree to build a tree house,” he assured her.
    “Is that so?” Both children lived in a make-believe world; no doubt that was how they dealt with their mother’s death. She wouldn’t have survived her own childhood without flights of imagination. She’d even made up an elaborate fantasy about her father and pretended he was a hero instead of an outlaw. That particular fantasy ended the day he hung from the gallows.
    Shuddering at the memory, she inhaled the brew’s rich aroma before taking a sip. It was just as she liked it: neither too strong nor too weak. “May I visit your tree house?”
    Toby looked up from his drawing. “We only let special people inside.”
    The back door flew open and Elise ran into the kitchen, her round cheeks as shiny as two red apples. The little white dog padded in behind her.
    Maggie knelt down to pet the animal. He was all wagging tail and licking tongue.
    “Have you had breakfast?”
    Elise nodded. She glanced at her brother as if sharing a secret. Or perhaps she thought she was in some sort of trouble. “And Whitewash and Patches had breakfast, too. I fed them while Toby milked the cow.”
    “Whitewash. Is that your dog’s name?”
    Elise nodded. “Uh-huh.”
    “And who is Patches?”
    “Patches is our horse. Pa’s horse is named Brownie.”
    “Let’s see if I have them right. Whitewash, Patches, and Brownie. Any other names I should know?”
    “The cow’s name is Milk Can, but the chickens don’t have names.”
    “What? No names? Well, we’ll have to come up with some. Meanwhile, we need to fix your hair. We don’t want to be late for school.”
    Elise raced to the bedroom, and Maggie followed. She reached for the silver-handled hairbrush on top of the bureau. Elise’s hair was long, almost to her waist, and had a natural curl.
    “Your brother was telling me about your tree house,” she said as she worked the bristles through Elise’s long locks.
    “Shh. We don’t want the boogeyman to hear.”
    Playing along, Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Absolutely not.” She glanced out the window, pretending to look for lurkers. “The coast is clear,” she said and proceeded to brush Elise’s thick hair. “So I think it’s okay to talk. I always wanted a tree house.”
    Elise’s watched her in the mirror. “You did?”
    “Yes, indeed.”
    “Ouch!” Elise cried out, grabbing the side of her head.
    “Sorry.” Maggie worked the knot gently out of the child’s tresses and quickly weaved the hair into two braids. She then tied both with a blue ribbon. “There, all done.”
    She held up a hand mirror so Elise could see the back of her head. She really was a pretty child, though far too serious for such a young age.
    Elise looked pleased by her reflection. “Papa doesn’t know how to make braids. He makes them all crooked.”
    Maggie tapped Elise’s pert nose with her finger. It was hard to believe that a man who could bend metal into the most amazing shapes was stymied by a little girl’s hair.
    “Don’t tell anyone, but I think that it’s a job for a woman.”
    Elise giggled. The child seemed to thrive on secrets.
    “Get your books. We don’t want to be late.” Maggie was anxious to take the