A Lasting Impression

pose.
    He knew the image would stay with him. “I wish you could paint me a picture of that.”
    They both laughed, and she sat back down beside him.
    She nudged the present at his feet closer. “Now it’s your turn.”
    He picked up the box, acting as if he might buckle beneath the weight. “I already know what it is.”
    Her eyes narrowed.
    “It’s a twenty-four-volume set on how to cheat at checkers.”
    She giggled, her gaze moving from his face to the package, then back again.
    He removed the wrapping and lifted the lid from the box—and couldn’t believe it. He looked at her, then back down. It was a coat, but not just any coat. He stood and pulled the long leather duster from the box. He held it up to him, staring at it, feeling like a little boy again. The duster was exactly what he and Mark used to pretend they were wearing when they played at fighting wild Indians.
    “If you’re going to run a thoroughbred farm, Sutton, I thought you should have the right coat.”
    Embarrassed at the tightening in his throat and wishing he’d told Andrew Stanton that Claire’s heart was spoken for, he shook his head. “Claire, this is too much.”
    “Try it on!” She jumped up and held it for him as he slipped his arms inside. “Now turn around.” He did, and she backed up a step. Her gaze moved over him. “Oh, Sutton . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I knew it would look good on you, but . . .” Her expression turned decidedly more intimate, in a most approving way.
    With his left arm hanging loose at his side, he edged the duster back on his right, acting as if he wore a gun belt slung low around his hips, the way he and Mark used to make believe.
    He rested his hand on his imaginary Colt revolver, narrowed his eyes, and reached for his deepest western drawl. “Howdy, ma’am.” He tugged the rim of an imaginary Stetson. “I’m sheriff of these parts, and I can see you’re new in town.”
    They laughed together, and he sank back down on the settee beside her, grateful for once that the furniture in the room was so compact.
    He smoothed a hand over the fine leather, not wanting to think about how much this coat had cost her. Much more than his gift to her. With the future of his job and earnings so unknown, he’d gone a more conservative route on her gift. Now he wished he hadn’t. “This is the best Christmas present I’ve had in twenty years . . . since my buddy and I both got wooden rifles.” He remembered as if it were yesterday.
    Of all the material possessions he’d lost when the Federals burned his family home, that toy rifle was at the top of the list of things he wished he still had.
    “Let me guess,” she said. “You used to play cowboys and Indians.”
    “Sometimes. Mostly Mark and I took turns being either the sheriff or the outlaw. It was more fun to be the outlaw, though.”
    “But the sheriff was always a better shot.”
    He peered over at her. “You’ve played before?”
    “No, but I’ve read enough dime novels to know what happens.”
    He leaned his head back on the settee. “Mark and I used to read those over and over again, then we’d grab our rifles and head outside. We had a friend, Danny Ranslett, who used to play with us. Except Danny got a real rifle when he was about seven or so, and”—he whistled low—“could that boy ever shoot.”
    “Do you all still see each other?”
    “Daniel moved out west shortly after the war. And Mark . . .” Sutton let his eyes drift shut. “He died not far from here, at the battle in Franklin. Daniel lost his youngest brother that night too. Not far from where Mark fell.”
    She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Is that when you were wounded?”
    He nodded. “I took a minié ball in the shoulder.” He reached up instinctively. “I didn’t even feel it at first. I was holding Mark . . . trying to stop the blood, trying to hear what he was telling me. But . . .” He took a shaky breath. “I couldn’t. It felt like the whole world was coming apart.” Emotion cinched a knot in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not on Christmas night.
    She wove her arm through his and scooted closer. He wiped his eyes, glad she couldn’t see his face. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting a mesmerizing cadence of shadows on the walls.
    She traced a forefinger over his open palm. It tickled, but he didn’t want her to stop.
    He waited until he was sure his voice would