Page 23 of On a Midnight Clear

Noah copied the numbers from his ledger onto the clean paper , keeping his script as neat as possible.

He only had a few more pages to finish this report for Charles , then he’d head back inside.

Though the barn was large and drafty , having the heater so near his mattress kept his sleeping area warm.

But the house felt so much more ... cozy. And festive. A place that beckoned him.

The barn door creaked open, and he looked up to see who would enter. Probably Martin, tending the animals.

But Miss Palmer peered around the door. When she saw him, she slipped inside. Something in her manner made his chest tighten. Her expression looked drawn. Worried or upset, maybe.

She approached him almost on tiptoe. “Mr. Bentwood.”

He put his work aside and stood. “Miss Palmer.”

She stood with hunched shoulders, her hands clasped at her middle. She looked distraught.

His insides twisted. “What’s wrong? Has Sam taken a turn for the worst?”

She shook her head. “I was wondering ... I mean ... have you seen..? I’m missing a knife.

A hunting knife. About this long”—she moved her pointer fingers about two handsbreadth apart—“with a handle formed from an elk antler. Our surname is carved into it.” She ended with a pleading gaze, as though he could produce the knife from his pocket.

He frowned. “Where did you see it last?”

“In my trunk. In my chamber. I don’t know where it could have gone.

I’m sorry to ask, but I don’t know what to do.

Have you seen it anywhere?” Her voice broke, and she paused to take in a breath that made her shoulders rise and fall.

“The knife has been handed down through our family as far back as I know. My mother entrusted it to me before she died, to give to Martin when I felt he was ready. I’d planned to present it to him this Christmas. ”

She’d been robbed of a cherished family heirloom, a final gift from a departed mother. He knew all too well the weight of such a loss.

“I know you must be worried. But it must be somewhere,” he assured her. “Have you asked the others?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I searched the trunk and my entire room. It didn’t fall out anywhere.”

He nodded as determination settled inside him. “Maybe someone saw it and put it in a safe place. I’ll help you look, and I’m sure we’ll find it. It can’t have disappeared like a mist.”

As she looked up at him, a glimmer of hope lit her eyes, though she looked hesitant to let it bloom.

The first step would be checking with the others. Maybe individually, just in case someone had a confession to share. “Perhaps it would be best if we approached the others separately. I can ask Miss Whitmore. She might have seen it if the knife somehow ended up in her room.”

Hope rolled her lips inward. “I’ll speak with Mr. Thompson and Martin. My brother went hunting, and might be gone the rest of the afternoon, but I’ll catch him tonight.”

She sniffed, and though she didn’t look as devastated as she had a moment ago, his chest ached with the need to bring a smile back to her face. To see her eyes alight with merriment.

He dipped his chin to be on eye level with her. “We’ll find it, Miss Palmer. Have faith.” If the knife was anywhere on this property, he would locate it. Even if he had to dig through the knee-high snow.

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Call me Hope. And I pray you’re right.”

Hope. What a wonderful name. Especially at Christmastide.

His fingers itched with the sudden urge to reach up and stroke her cheek, maybe brush those tendrils of hair back from her temple. He couldn’t do that, but he offered a smile. “Call me Noah, then. Shall we set to work?”

Noah raised his fist to knock on Miss Whitmore’s door, pausing as doubt crept in.

Was he overstepping bounds, intruding on a lady’s private quarters, especially at this late hour?

He’d volunteered to speak with Miss Whitmore so he could make sure it was done in as polite and respectful a way as possible.

Not that Hope would have been rude, but .

.. this was Charles’s daughter, and Noah had promised to protect her.

He’d planned to speak with her about the missing knife much earlier, but when he and Hope had returned to the house that afternoon, Sam had needed help with several things.

Hope had taken care of most of them—changing the bandage on his arm and helping him eat the stew she had ready—and Miss Whitmore had assisted her.

Then Noah had taken his turn when Sam had needed support to hobble to the outhouse, then back inside to change into fresh clothing. He was still so frail.

He couldn’t possibly be fit to drive by the day after Christmas.

It would be at least a week later, surely.

That thought should tighten the pressure in Noah’s chest, but for some reason, he couldn’t summon much worry.

They wouldn’t leave until they had a driver and a trail passable for the stage, so fretting about the delay was a waste of energy.

Instead, he could simply enjoy this unexpected adventure. A bit of pleasant company while being hidden away in a place so remote that no worries of business or family could reach him.

He squared his shoulders and tapped his knuckles against the wood.

Muffled footsteps approached, and the door opened to reveal Miss Whitmore, her auburn hair slightly mussed and a shawl draped over her shoulders.

Thankfully, she still wore her green dress.

He’d not waited so late that she’d readied for bed.

At that thought, heat crept up to his ears.

In any other place, approaching a woman’s bedchamber after dark would mean ruin for her reputation, but this was different. He simply had to make sure he kept his search completely proper.

“Mr. Bentwood.” Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

The heat in his neck intensified. “I apologize for disturbing you. I know it’s late. I just ... I needed to ask you something.”

Her eyes widened a little more. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat. No one would accuse him of improper intentions. Hope knew why he was speaking with Miss Whitmore, and her brother still tended chores in the barn. Sam had fallen asleep again, his snores drifting through the main room.

He refocused on Miss Whitmore. Best get this done quickly. “I meant to ask you earlier, but the day got away from me. I was wondering if you might have seen a knife? A hunting knife.” He held his fingers apart like Hope had done to show the size.

Her brow furrowed as she studied his hands. “A knife? I don’t ... I don’t think I’ve seen anything.” Her gaze rose to his face. “Could one of the kitchen knives work?”

He shook his head. He was making a bumble of this. “I mean, it’s a particular knife. Hope—or Miss Palmer—she’s missing it. The handle is made of antler, and it’s for Martin. An heirloom, passed down through their family.”

Miss Whitmore’s frown deepened. “I see. Well, I’m certain I haven’t come across anything like that. But...” She hesitated, glancing back into her room. “I’ll look through my trunk and bags, if you’d like. Perhaps it got mixed up with my things by accident.”

He hesitated. “Would you mind if I searched the supply crates stored in here? I’m helping Miss Palmer in the hunt.

” As much as he loved her given name, he should do his best to use Hope’s surname when speaking of her to others.

He couldn’t lose all his manners just because they were snowed in so far from polite society.

Once more, her eyes widened. “Of course.” She stepped back and motioned toward the boxes stacked in the corner. “Please. Help yourself.”

As he entered, the soft scent of rosewater enveloped him, making him feel even more out of place. He paused just inside the door, not wanting to venture too far into her private space.

Miss Whitmore moved to the corner and lit an additional lamp on the shelf, brightening the room a little. Her trunk sat at the foot of the narrow bed, and her two carpetbags against the far wall. He’d carried those two himself when they’d arrived here amidst the fierce wind and swirling snow.

He turned to the crates at his right, opposite the bed, and lifted the lid of one on top.

Fabric stared up at him, and when he removed the yellow flannel on top, he found a red plaid.

A variety of folded materials filled the container, and he unpacked them carefully.

He didn’t have to unfold each cloth, thank the Lord.

He only had to bend them to be certain nothing long and stiff had been tucked inside.

Though who would have done the tucking, he still couldn’t fathom.

The next crate proved equally as fruitless, but he didn’t allow himself to move so fast that he missed a clue.

After a few moments, Miss Whitmore’s voice sounded. “I’ve emptied the trunk. Would you like to come check to see if you find something I haven’t?”

He stood and turned. She’d laid all her clothing across the bed—dresses, bundles of frilly white lace, and other things he’d rather not know the names of.

He’d only had brothers, and only one faint memory of his mother.

Nana hadn’t possessed anything with this much lace, at least not that she’d hung on the line on washing day.

He turned his focus to the trunk first. She’d emptied it well, and he made quick work of inspecting the upper tray and tapping the bottom for hidden compartments.

What must she think of him, treating her as though she would willingly steal from the family that had offered them such gracious hospitality.

But he wouldn’t be able to rest if he had any lingering questions about places he hadn’t looked.

He straightened and attempted an apology. “I’m sorry for such a search. It’s just...”

She waved his words away. “Think nothing of it. It’s awful to be missing such a priceless treasure. If an evil fairy mixed it in with my belongings, I certainly want it discovered and returned. Poor Hope.”

He eased out a breath. “Thank you for being so gracious.”

She turned to her belongings spread across the coverlet. “Help me watch for anything I missed as I pack them away.”

He did his best not to feel like a cad as he studied each item for something solid hiding within.

She was careful to hold the garments with her fingertips and shake them out, and by the time she’d repacked the trunk, he had no shadow of a concern that she might have hidden away a knife in her belongings.

He finished searching the crates while she laid out the contents of her two carpetbags, then they repeated the process.

He searched the bags, then watched as she carefully inspected each item and tucked it back in one of the satchels.

He’d never wanted to know everything women carried with them, but he now possessed the knowledge, though he couldn’t remember half the names she’d mentioned for the items he wasn’t familiar with. Best he forget altogether.

At last, she turned to him. “Where next?”

Only the bed remained, and it didn’t take long for the two of them to remove the blankets and search the mattress tick. The cornhusk filling likely made her sleep as uncomfortable as his, but he’d slept on worse—a stone floor was far more uncomfortable.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled the coverlet up over the bottom blanket and turned to him with sad eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not here. I’m so sorry.”

She truly did look sorry. Charles should be proud of this excellent young woman he’d raised. Charles was proud. He said that often. And he was counting down the days until she returned from school.

That reminder dulled Noah’s relief, and he stepped toward the open doorway. “Thank you for helping me be so thorough.” He turned back and gave a half bow. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

As he pulled the door closed behind him, the mixture of emotions in his chest felt like they might combust within him.

He’d just done something that would be a scandal in proper circles.

But he’d done it to help Hope, and he didn’t regret the search.

If only it had been successful. Not that he wanted Miss Whitmore to be a thief, but surely there would have been a logical explanation.

And at least he would have been able to return Hope’s treasure to her.

He could well imagine how her expressive eyes would light.

That pert mouth would probably open in surprise.

And maybe she would even hug him—something impulsive and strictly for celebration.

He could practically feel her warmth beneath his hands.

He shouldn’t be imagining such things.

As he strode through the main room, Hope sat beside Sam’s still form. She looked up at him with a curious expression, but he didn’t stop to answer her questions. He could share the details of the search in the morning.

Just now, he didn’t trust himself to be so close to her. Not with the darkness and cold thick outside and the warm fire making the room feel intimate.

He turned away from her as he pulled on his coat and hat. “Good night, Miss Palmer.”

As he opened the door, her voice drifted behind him. “Good night ... Noah.”

His name spoken in her lovely voice, her tone so hesitant, made him want to turn back into the warm, bright cabin. He stepped farther into the icy wind and closed the door behind him.

Watch yourself , Bentwood. You’ve no business tangling with a woman who lives here in the middle of nowhere. He had his life laid out for him. And falling for a woman who lived and planned to stay in the wilderness of the Nebraska Territory wasn’t part of that plan.