“I see the good in you, Gage.”

It was so simple, really, his integrity, his strength, his kindness.

What was she doing? Gage wasn’t for her, but the beauty of this meadow was. Wonder surrounded her in a pool of delicate flowers.

She ran her fingers through the leaves and petals, softer than silk to touch, and breathed deeply. “This is what hope smells like.”

“You could be right.” He knelt too.

Gage stared at her, his gloved hand settling at the small of her back, his other reaching toward her face.

There was no panic or outrage or shock as he eased close. So close their breaths mingled and their lips met in a soft, luscious caress.

Eyes fluttering shut, she surrendered. Dying a little bit as he caught her bottom lip between his and sucked just right. The sensation was the single best thing she’d ever felt. Ever!

Praise for JILLIAN HART’S recent works

Bluebonnet Bride

“Ms. Hart expertly weaves a fine tale of the heart’s ability to find love after tragedy. Pure reading pleasure!”

—Romantic Times

Montana Man

“…a great read!”

—Rendezvous

Cooper’s Wife

“…a wonderfully written romance full of love and laughter.”

—Rendezvous

Last Chance Bride

“The warm and gentle humanity of Last Chance Bride is a welcome dose of sunshine…”

—Romantic Times

Montana Legend
Jillian Hart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Montana, 1884

L ooking up from her early morning chores, Sarah Redding watched the distant horse and rider against the vast expanse of the eastern horizon. The newly rising sun peered over the edge of the world, casting the mounted man in silhouette, limning him with light. Morning came soft as a whisper to the land, but it seemed as if the daylight did not touch him. The stranger rode in darkness.

He’s like a myth, all power and steel, she thought as the rider grew nearer on the road from town. Then closer still until she could see the angle of his Stetson, the glint of silver at his belt and the blue of his denim trousers.

“What kept you? I’ve been waiting on the milk,” a sharp voice scolded from inside the weather-beaten shanty.

“I’ve got the full pail right here.”

“Then hand it through the door. You’re running late with your chores again.” Aunt Pearl, a babe balanced on her hip, rammed open the screen door and seized the tin bucket. “I’ll strain this. Hurry and go, before Milt comes in from the fields wanting his breakfast.”

There would be trouble to pay if that happened, Sarah knew. As a widow with an ill child, she could not risk angering her uncle, not when she was down on her luck.

She plucked the egg basket from the porch, determined to waste no more time daydreaming about the lone rider with the fancy Stetson.

Still, she wondered about him. He didn’t look to be from around here. Strangers were few and far between on this forgotten spot on the Montana prairie. Who was he and why was he here? Sarah resisted the urge to turn toward the horizon as she unlatched the chicken house door.

High, angry squawks filled the air as chickens hurled toward her, flapping their wings. Yellow beaks pecked at her ankles and she shooed the mean birds away.

I’m grateful to be here, she reminded herself. She wiped a few specks of blood away with her skirt hem before scaling up the wooden ramp and into the dark cramped coop.

If Aunt Pearl hadn’t convinced her husband to let Sarah live with them, there was no telling what would have happened to her or to her daughter. She might not be happy living here, but at least they had a roof over their heads. A place to stay while Ella recovered her health.

Already, the little girl was growing stronger. Staying here was only a temporary situation. One day, she would be able to work full-time again. There would be no more Aunt Pearl, no more hardship and no more chickens.

For all Sarah knew, happiness could be waiting just around the corner.

“Shoo, bird.” She waved her apron at the wiry old hen wisely guarding her nest.

The hen didn’t move, so Sarah flapped her apron harder.

With an insulted screech, the chicken dove at her. Feathers flew everywhere, choking the air.

“Hello? Miss?” a man’s voice called from outside the henhouse. “Thought you should know there’s a hole in the fence. Your birds are out.”

That wasn’t Uncle Milt’s voice. Then who could it be? Surely not one of the neighbors.

She remembered the dark rider she’d spotted on the horizon’s edge, and she plucked a feather from her hair. No. It can’t be him.

She peered through the small door. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the mounted man in her uncle’s yard. With his black hat tipped low over his face, she could only see the cut of his square jaw, dark with several days’ growth. His mouth was an unrelenting line that did not flicker.

The dark rider stood in the yard, so handsome she could not breathe. She brushed a feather from her patched apron before stepping into the sunlight. “Thank you for mentioning it. Goodness, the hens are everywhere.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson. He looked like man and might, like a legend on horseback, as he stared at her without saying more.

She’d never been so aware of the dress she wore, thin and faded from wear. Her fingers found another feather in her hair and she tugged it free. “We had a hungry coyote last night.”

“There are tracks. Two sets of them.” His voice was magnificent, too, as he gestured toward the hole in the fence.

Here she was, standing before a dream, and what was she wearing? The ugliest dress in the county. It was clear he was not about to be carried away by the sight of her.

Well, life never promised to be fair or love easy to find.

She brushed at the straw clinging to her hem and knelt in front of the fence.

“Need help?”

“No.”

Leather creaked as the stranger dismounted. He was as tall as he looked. He approached with a slow confident gait, strolling right past her as if she wasn’t there.

Her skin tingled at his nearness. A zing of sensation skipped down her spine, making her aware of this man, so strong and silent. Far too aware. Her blood felt warm in her veins, and she stared intently at the hole in the earth. Could he guess that she was attracted to him?

“I don’t suppose this is the Buchanan spread?”

“No.”

“That’s the way my luck’s been running lately.” He tipped his black hat lower over his eyes. “I’ll need a shovel.”

“A shovel? Oh, I can’t let you fix this.” The sooner he rode away, the faster her reaction to him would fade. She took off her apron and stuffed it into the small hole. “There, this will do for now.”

“Don’t want my help?”

“I don’t know you, sir.”

“Last name’s Gatlin.” His hard mouth softened into a small grin at the corners. “My friends call me Gage. You look alone here. Is this your place?”

“No, this is my aunt’s husband’s farm. She’s busy in the house, and Uncle Milt is out early in the fields.”

She climbed to her feet only to realize there was a dirt stain across the front of her bodice from preparing the garden spot yesterday. She looked like the poor relation she was.

Well, nothing could be done about it now. “What are you doing riding this way, Mr. Gatlin?”

“Looking for my next job.”

She spotted a stray chicken and dashed after it. Mr. Gatlin’s fine-blooded mare snorted in surprise as she whisked past. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah noticed the polished leather of the quality saddle, and the expensive rifle cover strapped beneath the right stirrup. “Your next job? You don’t look like a drifter.”

“And you look like you need some help.” The grin in the corners of his mouth widened a little more as he stood, all power and masculinity.

Making her feel small and plain.

She scooped a hen from the grass at the roadside. When she turned around, he was gone. So, he thought he’d help her, would he? Judging by the quality of his horse and saddle, he didn’t need to trade work for a meal.

So what did he want? Or was he merely being a gentleman? She marched past his horse and deposited the hen in the coop, not sure what to do if Mr. Gatlin was only being kind. She hadn’t been around a kind man in so long—since her husband died—that she’d almost forgotten they truly existed.

By the time she’d caught her third escaped chicken, Gage Gatlin ambled out of the barn carrying a battered shovel.

“Might as well make myself useful. I’m rusty at helping maidens in distress, but I’ll get better with practice.”

“You’re out of practice at shoveling? Or helping a woman?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Why’s that?” She held the squawking chicken against her chest with one hand as she reached for the door latch. “Is there a wife you’re running away from?”

He was at her side in an instant, radiating heat and strength as he opened the door for her. “There’s no wife.”

“I see.” She brushed past him to release the bird.

He nodded toward the south, where the rolling prairie stretched endlessly. “I’m looking for a fellow who’s got a place not far from here. I thought this was the place, but I must have taken the wrong road.”

“You did.” She brushed dirt and chicken feathers from her worn skirt. “I happen to know where that ranch is.”

“Is that so? Then maybe we can make a deal.”

“Why did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because I’m bound and determined to help you out, ma’am.”

“Fine. You fix my chicken fence and I’ll give you the best directions you’ve ever had. Is that what you want?”

“I say it’s a satisfactory deal. I’d best get to work.”

“I have eggs to gather.” She grabbed a basket and hurried through the little chicken yard toward the snug henhouse. Her skirts rustled with her gait, her long braids snapping.

Gage watched her go. She moved like May across the prairie, light and easy on the eyes. And because she wasn’t wearing a petticoat beneath that threadbare dress, he could make out the shape of her legs as she ran. Long, lean, but not skinny. And her hair, as bright as gold, made him glad to be a man. It trailed down her back as rich as sunlight.

There were times he missed having a woman to pull close. Especially a woman like this one.

She disappeared into the coop, and it was too bad. He liked the way she looked, even with the feather stuck in her hair. Her dress was faded and her sunbonnet needed starching, but she was the prettiest female he’d seen in a long while.

He filled in the hole and tamped it down good around the wood post. Without new wire, he couldn’t do better, but it would hold for now. As he climbed to his feet, he couldn’t help but hear angry voices coming from the weather-beaten shanty.

Lived with her relatives, did she? He felt sorry for her as he carried the shovel to the barn and stowed it in the same dirty corner where he’d found it. He knew something about families and anger.

Not that he had much family to call his own anymore. Aside from his little girl, his parents were buried and his brothers and sisters were spread across the West like seeds on the wind. Considering the house he’d grown up in and the marriage he’d had, being alone wasn’t so bad.

The horse shied as he came near.

“Easy girl, I’m not the one who’s angry.” Gage patted the mare’s warm neck. “I told you, you’re safe with me.”

The horse’s ears swiveled. Her skin twitched nervously and not even his touch could soothe her.

Gage’s gaze followed the sounds of anger. In a glance he noticed the shanty’s front steps were loose and the porch boards uneven. The screen door sagged on tired hinges. Before he could decide to step up to the house to try to intercede, the shrill woman’s voice faded into silence.

Troubled, he waited. He could hear a faint humming from inside the chicken coop and soon, there she was, breezing down the ramp, swinging her basket of well-packed eggs. Her worn gray dress swirled around her ankles like music.

Spotting him, she wove around the chickens and through the small gate. “I see you kept your end of the bargain.”

“It’s the best I can do without new wire.” Gage shrugged, snapping clods of dirt from the crumpled garment he’d rescued from the earth. “Here’s your apron. I guess it’s your turn to help me out.”

“With the directions. I had better take a look at the repair you did to the fence. If it isn’t good enough, I just may give you bad directions.”

“I expect good directions as I did a remarkable job.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. Couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but this little slip of a woman made his burdens seem to disappear, if only for a moment.

She knelt to inspect his work, a small smile on her soft lips as if she were holding back more laughter. As if she were taking pleasure in teasing him.

“All right. I guess that will do. It’s the Buchanan land you’re looking for?”

“That’s right, ma’am. I’m expected to arrive this morning. I gave my word.”

“A man of his word, are you? I thought those didn’t exist anymore.” She swept close to snatch the balled-up apron.

For an instant she was near enough for him to see the soft threads of gold in her hair. To smell the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of wood smoke, crisp and clean. She’d lit the morning cooking fire, he’d wager, noticing her delicate hands chapped red from hard work. He felt sorry for her, living in that anger-filled house.

She shook the dirt from her apron in a smooth snap, breaking through his thoughts and calling his attention back to watch her fold the length of calico over her lean forearm.

“You’ll want to head back the way you came,” she said in that gentle way of hers. “Stay left at the first fork you come to in the road. Buchanan’s place is about the fifth ranch you come to. Keep our barn in your sight, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel too old. I’m not stoop-shouldered yet.”

Old? She looked young—not too young—and easy to look at as she shaded her eyes with one hand. “My name is Sarah Redding.”

He tipped his hat. “Well, Miss Sarah Redding, I’ll round up your chickens and be on my way.”

Sarah couldn’t help the pull of disappointment in her chest. “Miss,” he’d called her. It was a common enough mistake, she supposed, thinking of the several bachelors and widowers who’d been by to call when she’d first arrived at Aunt Pearl’s house last spring.

As soon they’d learned she was not as young as they figured and she had a daughter, they nearly tripped over their feet to leave in a hurry and never returned. And if it hurt, she wasn’t about to admit it or to expect that this man, as appealing as he may seem, would be any different.

And if that were true, she didn’t want him gathering up her aunt’s escaped chickens. “I can catch the hens on my own,” she called after him. “They’re my responsibility and besides, didn’t you give your word? You have places to be.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes to help.”

“Go on, cowboy. It’s my work to do.”

A chicken squawked, flapping to keep out of his reach. He hesitated, straightening to figure out the best thing to do. Didn’t seem right to leave her like this, but she looked determined to be rid of him. Maybe she was one of those independent types, never settling for a husband and marriage.

Or maybe it was him she didn’t want hanging around for too long.

“I’ll be on my way, if that’s what you want, ma’am.” He gathered his mare’s reins, taking comfort in the familiar feel of worn leather against his skin. Something made him hesitate, maybe because she was the most decent woman he’d come across in some time.

Maybe he had no right taking an interest, but it didn’t stop him. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you living with relatives? A pretty lady like you ought to be married.”

“The truth is, I haven’t found the right man. Only inferior ones wind up traveling down my road.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him—not coy or enticing, but gentle and honest. She tilted her head to one side, scattering the gold wisps that had escaped her braid.

And revealing a small white downy feather stuck in the hair above her left ear. The breeze lifted and made it flutter. “Good luck to you, cowboy. I appreciate your help.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He tipped his hat and mounted. The creak of the saddle was the only sound between them and he waited, trying to think of something more to say.

But the truth was, he’d never had much desire to charm the ladies. He was more practiced in keeping his distance from them, not in figuring out how to talk with them. When was the last time he’d been interesting in keeping up a conversation with a woman?

He couldn’t rightly say. Just as he couldn’t rightly explain why his heart ached with her sweetness as the breeze ruffled her skirt and the wisps of hair that escaped from her braids.

He liked the sight of her, faded dress and all.

“By the way, you missed a feather.” He said it kindly as he nudged the mare with his knees and guided the animal with an expert’s ease. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

“What?” Sarah’s hand flew to her head and her fingertips bumped into the feather’s stiff spine. She tugged it out of her hair, but he was already riding away.

Oh, had it been sticking out straight like that the entire time?

Probably. Heat swept across her face. There he goes, the most handsome man who had ever wandered down her road, and what kind of impression did she make? Certainly not one that charmed him to the depths of his soul.

Sarah brushed at the skirt that had been her mother’s. So old, the dyes had faded from the cotton, leaving only light gray. Her hair wasn’t even up yet, she realized, a long braid sticking her mid-back as she rescued an escaped hen. A terrible feeling settled into her stomach. Had she made a fool of herself? Most likely.

Well, today wouldn’t be the day she fell in love with a wonderful man.

She’d long since stopped expecting love to happen twice in her lifetime, but the tiny hope inside her remained.

Maybe tomorrow. A woman could always hope there would be another man riding her way, tall and strong, with eyes the color of the wind.

Over the last rise the Buchanan ranch came into view, or what he figured had to be the Buchanan spread. Because the split-rail fence alongside the road went from well-maintained to tumbling-down.

He ought to have expected it, the way his luck had always been. Still, this was a fair piece of prairie that went on as far as he could see. A slice of heaven for sale right here on the vast Montana prairie.

Gage reined the mare to a stop and looked. Just looked. What a sight. The sun was drifting over the horizon, gaining in brightness, chasing away the last of the night shadows. He couldn’t get enough of these wide-open spaces and it filled him with hope.

Real, honest-to-goodness hope, and that was a hard thing for a practical man like him. A man who’d seen too much of the bad life had in it. But that life seemed a lifetime away as the warmth of the morning seeped through his clothes and into his skin. He didn’t believe that dreams existed. But maybe here he had a chance. To make a permanent home for his daughter’s sake. To find some peace for his.

Maybe.

Looking from left to right, he remembered the description in Buchanan’s letter.

Two whole sections. Two square miles of his own land. Larger than any he’d yet come across. It was something to consider even if neglect hung on the crooked fence posts that leaned one way, then another. How they stood up at all was a wonder.

Gage nudged his mare onto the dirt path and considered the desolate fields surrounding him, fields grazed down to earth and stone. Cattle dotted the pasture and lifted their heads at his approach. Several bawled at him, their ribs visible, suffering from hunger. Good animals, too, and valuable enough—

He swore. Whoever Buchanan was, he was a damn fool.

Turn around, his instincts told him. You’ve looked at better property and kept on riding. Gage knew what he wanted, and this rundown homestead wasn’t it. Yep, he ought to turn around and head south. Look at the land for sale near Great Falls. There had to be a better deal for his hard-earned cash.

He touched his knee against the mare’s flank, turning her toward the main road, but a niggling doubt coiled tight in his chest. Something deep within made him hesitate against his better judgment. Maybe it was the haunting beauty of the plains. Or the vast meadows that didn’t hem him in.

Maybe he was just tired of roaming. Gage couldn’t explain it. He simply let the high prairie winds turn him around. He guided the mare down the rutted and weed-choked path while hungry cattle bellowed pitifully as he passed by.

After riding a spell up a slight incline that hid the lay of the land ahead, the road leveled out and Gage stood in his stirrups eager for the first sight of what could be his home. As the ever-present wind battered his Stetson’s brim, he spotted a structure on the crest of the rise, silhouetted by the sun, shaded by a thick mat of trees.

“Get up, girl,” he urged, heels nudging into the mare’s sides, sending her into an easy lope.

The structure grew closer and, as the road curved ’round, it became a tiny claim shanty listing to the south, as if the strong winter winds had nearly succeeded in blowing it over. One entire corner of the roof was missing.

That’s it. Turn around. There was no sense in talking it over with Buchanan. The place was a wreck. The cattle were starving. For all he knew, they might never regain their health.

A wise man would keep on moving.

Now normally he was a wise man, but for some reason the reins felt heavy in his right hand, too heavy to fight them. So, he let the mare continue along the path and reined her to a halt in front of the ramshackle excuse for a house.

The door squeaked open, sagging on old leather hinges. A stooped, grizzled man wearing a faded red cotton shirt and wrinkled trousers limped into sight, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane. “You Gage Gatlin?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” Gage dismounted and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Buchanan.”

The old man braced his weight on his good leg, leaned his cane against his hip and accepted Gage’s hand. His handshake was surprisingly solid for a man so infirm, and Gage felt some sympathy for the man who’d grown too weak and old to care for his land and livestock.

“Pleased to meet you, stranger. You can call me Zeb.” Buchanan repositioned his cane and the hard look in his watery eyes was unflinching. “Now that you’ve seen my place, are you still figurin’ to buy?”

“Don’t know. Trying to decide that for myself.”

Gage studied the shanty. It didn’t look good. The unpainted boards were weathered to black and where boards were missing, Buchanan had used tarred paper as a patch. “I’ve gotta be honest. This place is going to take hard work and a lot of it.”

“It’s rundown, I didn’t lie to you about that.” Shame flushed the man’s aged face. “The land’s good, you keep that in mind, and my herds are fine stock. Don’t look like it, I know, but it was a long winter and I had to make the hay last. Others had the same trouble ’round here. I’ll give you a fair price, that’s for sure.”

A fair price was always something to consider. But still. The house was a disappointment. Barely livable. Gage took a step back, studying the size of it. “This looks like a one-room shanty. The stove stays?”

“I’d throw it in for free.” Zeb perked up, leaning heavily on his cane as he pointed around the battered corner of the house. “Been looking for the right man to come along. The neighbor has pushing me to sell my good animals to him, but he is a rough son-of-a-gun. You—” Zeb paused. “You have horseman’s hands.”

Gage nodded slowly, knowing well what Zeb meant and didn’t say. “Maybe I’ll take a look at your herd.”

“Out yonder. Go ahead and take your time. Reckon seein’ my horses’ll make up your mind one way or the other.”

There was a glint in the old man’s eye, like a promise of good things to come, and it felt infectious. A lightning bolt of hope zagged through Gage as he crunched through tall, dead grass. Couldn’t help expecting to find a good herd of horses to work with. Horses to call his own.

Each step he took through dry thistles made him more certain. He could feel it in his bones as he looked beyond the falling-down fences, sad-eyed Herefords and the remains of a barn, rafters broken in the middle, sagging sadly to the ground. Hope beat within him as he hiked past a gnarled orchard and then froze dead in his tracks.

He was looking at heaven, or the closet part of it he was likely to see.

The brown prairie spread out like an endless table below him, breathtaking and free, in all directions. Unbroken except for the faint line of fallen split-rail fencing and grazing horses, stretching all the way to rugged mountains a haze of purple and pure, glistening white, and close enough to touch. The sun gleamed so bright, it made his eyes water.

He wanted this land. This dream.

A gentle neigh shot through the morning’s stillness. Gage looked over his shoulder and lost his breath at the sight of a little bay filly trotting up to the fence, head held high, mane flying, ears pricked forward.

“Howdy, girl.” He held out a hand so she could scent him and see there was no danger. “You’re a pretty one.”

As she reached her nose over the top rung of the listing fence, he gazed out across the endless meadows to watch heads lift from grazing and long manes flutter in the breeze. He picked out the arched necks of Arabians, the sturdy-lined Clydesdales and hardworking quarter horses. There had to be a hundred of them. Maybe more.

Dozens of breeding mares, he realized, their sides heavy with foal. Most of the herd stayed at a far distance, but several animals trotted close and warily approached, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as they scented him, determining if he was friend or foe.

Negligence hung on them like the dirt on their coats. The filly at the fence nickered for attention. Her sad eyes implored him, as if she were hoping he had food. Her ribs showed plainly through the thick mat of her dirty coat.

Gage took a minute to study her. Good lines, no doubt about it. Underneath all the mud, she’d clean up real nice. He rubbed her nose, and she was trusting enough to lean into his touch. She hadn’t been abused. A damn good sign.

Gage crawled through the fence and ambled close enough to the small group of mares before they bolted, galloping to safety, their tails sailing behind them. Pleasure filled him like the sweet prairie air. They looked like a fine group. There wasn’t a swayback in the lot of them.

You’ve struck pay dirt, cowboy. Gage leaned against the fence and watched the stallion pace around his mares. Watched the mares calm down and return to foraging for food. He felt the old hunger rise in his blood.

A man didn’t get luckier than this.

He stood there for what felt like hours. Soaking in the sunshine and the freedom. He could feel his old life slip from his shoulders like a coat no longer wanted. A new start. Fresh possibilities. Oh, it’d take work—and a lot of it. He wasn’t fooling himself about that—

A sharp chicken squawk interrupted his thoughts. He remembered the pretty country woman and how her simple dress had skimmed her slim hips. Thinking of Sarah Redding made a different hunger rise in his blood, one of longing, one he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He’d surely have to return that chicken. Only because it was the neighborly thing to do.

Chapter Two

S arah mopped her brow and clods of dirt tumbled from her fingers. Her back burned from hoeing for an hour straight, and she’d only turned one row of the acre patch. She loved gardening, but this was her least favorite part. Her back agreed as she sank the edge of the hoe into the stubborn ground and her spine burned.

The drum of steeled horseshoes rang on the road behind her, growing steadily louder, and she didn’t bother to look up. It was probably Aunt Pearl and the children back from shopping in town. Sarah’s stomach tightened because her cherished peace was about to end.

Well, at least she was ready for them. The noon meal was cooked and ready, the table set, the floors swept and the beds made—and all ahead of time. Not even Milt could find fault with her today. Satisfied, she wrestled the hoe from the stubborn ground.

“Hello again,” a man’s voice called from behind her, as rich and deep as a midnight sky.

Could it be? Sarah dropped the hoe, squinting against the bright sun to see the man silhouetted, tall on his horse, his Stetson tipped at a friendly angle.

“Mr. Gatlin. I’m surprised to see you again.”

“Look what I found.” His horse stepped forward, bringing him out of the sun’s glare, and he gestured toward the white chicken tucked in the crook of his left arm. “I assume this is yours.”

“One went missing this morning.” She bounded forward, eager to relieve him of his burden, and found herself standing in his shadow, close enough to see the texture of his unshaven jaw. A shiver passed through her, wondering what it would be like to lay her hand there.

He leaned forward in his saddle and bent close to hand her the hen. And as she reached up, their fingers brushed. He was like sun-warmed rock and she went up on tiptoes, her wrist brushing the soft downy hair on his forearm.

“Do you have her good and tight?” he asked, the rumble of his voice wrapping around her, moving through her.

Breathless, she managed to nod. The bird flapped and squawked as Sarah tucked it snugly against her apron, but she was hardly aware of anything as her heart tumbled, a strange falling sensation she’d never felt before.

Gage straightened in his saddle, adjusting his hat with ease. “She was scratching in the grass near the property line fencing. Since your hens escaped this morning, I figured she had to be yours.”

“I thought that hungry coyote got her.” Sarah took a step back. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Gatlin.”

“My pleasure. Least I can do for your help this morning. I found Buchanan’s spread just fine. Fact is, it’s my land now.”

“You purchased it? I can’t believe he finally sold it. He’s been trying to for as long as I’ve lived here.” Feathers flew as the chicken in her arms struggled. “Excuse me. I’d better put her in the pen with the others.”

Gage tipped his hat in answer, struck again by the sight of her. Sarah Redding was a good-looking woman, sure as rain, and made a pleasing sight as she dashed through the shade of the house. Feathers flew in her wake, and her dress snapped around her slim ankles. Her sunbonnet hung down her back, drawing his gaze to the dip of her small waist.

No doubt about it—a darn pretty sight.

What was a woman as fine as her doing here on this sorry-looking spread? He had to wonder. Living with relatives barely etching out a living, by the looks of things. And working damn hard herself, judging by the abandoned hoe at the end of one long overturned row. Dismounting, he considered the long acre of unturned dirt. That just wasn’t right for one woman to do all that hard work by hand.

He lifted the hoe and felt the handle worn smooth by time and use. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked at the pad of her feet in the earth behind him. “This is a mighty big piece to furrow by hand.”

“I know, since I tilled it last spring, too.” She took the garden tool from him as if the thought of all that backbreaking work didn’t trouble her. “If you’ve purchased Mr. Buchanan’s land, then that makes you our neighbor.”

“It sure does.”

“Did Buchanan tell you about the water problem?” She wiped a stray chicken feather from her skirt with the sweep of her hand.

It was hard not to notice the delicate shape of her fingers as she pulled at her sunbonnet strings, tugging the calico bonnet up her back and over her head, covering her golden hair.

He returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. “I checked the wells myself. They’re deep enough not to run dry in summer.”

“That’s true.” She leaned on the hoe. “I thought you were seeing Mr. Buchanan for a job. Had I known you were buying the place, I would have said something.”

“What’s the problem? Has it got something to do with the creek?”

“So you noticed that?”

“Hard to get anything by me.” He tipped his hat to her, his lopsided grin dizzying. “They don’t call me the toughest horseman this side of the Rockies for nothing.”

“You’re going to take back the creek?”

“It’s mine, and the law is the law.” Gage considered the garden patch again and the pretty slip of a woman standing beside it. “What’s wrong with your uncle that he won’t plow for you?”

“I’ve got to earn my keep, and he only has one set of workhorses. They’re for the fields, not for working the garden.”

“We’ll see about that. I’ll be right back.” He led his mare away by the bit, striding as easy as you please, kicking up dust with every step he took.

He disappeared around the side of the house, and Sarah released a pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The toughest horseman this side of the Rockies, was he? He sure looked it. He was powerful enough to make her pulse skip crazily. Man enough to make her wish. Just wish.

See there? There she went again, hoping for what was as rare as hen’s teeth.

He’s not interested in you. How could he be? She was a widow with a stack of medical bills and a child to provide for. A woman down on her luck and with little to offer a man. Gage Gatlin was handsome enough. He could probably have any woman he wanted. A woman of means and beauty. There were surely enough of those types of ladies in town, and Sarah knew she couldn’t hold a candle to the lot of them.

She dusted a streak of dirt from her skirt. No, a man like Gage Gatlin wouldn’t be interested in a woman like her.

Time to get back to work. She gripped her hoe, the smooth wooden handle warm from the sun, and lifted it high. Down it went, striking into the earth. Metal clinked as it hit a rock and the impact recoiled up her arms. As she worked the hoe deep into the dirt, the blister on her thumb ached.

“Whoa, there. What do you think you’re doin’?” Gage returned, leading his mare hitched to Milt’s small plow. “I figure this won’t take long, so just step back and rest a spell.”

“But—”

His back was to her as he looped the long thick reins around his neck and dug the plow’s metal tooth into the ground.

He was no stranger to work, and she had to admire the way his muslin shirt stretched over his broad shoulders as he handled the plow. The wind battered the shock of dark hair tangling below his collar—longer than was proper, but it seemed to fit the rough, raw image he made, a lone man against the endless prairie and sparkling sky.

And what was she doing? Wasting time standing idle while he worked? Goodness, he’d already completed one long row. Swiping off his hat, he tunneled his fingers through his dark locks, then glanced at her, his smile slow and easy.

“Does it meet with your approval, ma’am?”

Oh, his Western drawl was honey-sweet and made her chest flutter. She did her best to hide it and to answer politely, not like a woman interested. “Just fine, Mr. Gatlin. How can I thank you?”

“There’s no need, as we’re neighbors now. I might be needing a favor in return one day.” He repositioned the plow, making a second row. Muscles bunched beneath his cotton shirt, and sweat beaded his brow as he worked.

A favor, huh? She couldn’t imagine what. Plowing was hard work, so how was she ever going to help him in return? She wasn’t used to being beholden to a neighbor—and a handsome stranger at that.

Well, there was work always waiting to be done. She’d best get to it. After one last look over her shoulder at the man with the dark Stetson shading his face, she hurried into the kitchen. She truly shouldn’t be watching him so much, it’s just that her eyes kept finding him if he was in sight.

You wish too much, Sarah, for things that cannot be. Was it sadness or regret that lingered heavy and familiar in her chest? She didn’t know which as she pumped water until it ran cool and she discovered she could see Gage through the open kitchen window. Hat tilted at a jaunty angle, he was speaking low and easy to his mare. His big hands held the plow with ease.

What kind of man was he, at heart? she wondered. There was an untamed toughness to him, rugged like the very land itself. Yet he handled the mare with kind words when other men would use the reins as a whip.

Oh, well, it wasn’t her concern, anyway, was it? she reminded herself and turned her back on the kitchen window, winding through the dim, cramped shanty to the back bedroom. The door creaked on its hinges as she peered into the room far enough to see Ella, asleep in her bed. Fierce love burned in Sarah’s heart for her child, who lay lost in dreams, her blond locks curling across the snowy pillowslip like finely spun gold.

Unable to stop herself, Sarah smoothed the crocheted afghan tucked beneath the girl’s chin, remembering a time when Ella had been a baby asleep in her crib and a man had been plowing their first garden patch—her husband.

It was so long ago now that her grief at his death had healed. One day she knew there would be another man in her life she thought to herself as she walked to the kitchen. A man who had enough love in his heart for a woman with a child and responsibilities.

Looking out the kitchen window as she mixed sweet ginger water, Sarah watched Gage Gatlin finish furrowing another row of her garden. The rich earthy scent of freshly turned dirt filled the air as he managed the plow with easy skill. He gripped the handles and clucked to his mare to send her plodding forward. He looked hot beneath the noontime sun.

She had to figure out something to repay him, something a neighbor would do for a neighbor. The thought heartened her as she searched the pantry for sugar and spice, and a jar of winter preserves caught her gaze. That’s what she’d do. She would bake him a cherry pie in exchange for his kindness to her.

Feeling lighter, Sarah rescued the best cup from the top shelf in the kitchen and filled it with cool water. The curtains snapped in the breeze to give her brief glimpses of the man hard at work. She tried not to think about how masculine he looked as she measured sugar and ginger into the cool water.

By the time she swept down the steps and into the side yard, Gage was pulling his lathered mare to a halt. He was breathing hard with exertion. He whipped off his hat and raked his fingers through his dark locks.

“You’re done already?” She handed him the glass.

“I don’t let grass grow under these boots.” He drank all the water in one long draught, the cords in his strong neck working with each swallow. He gave a well-satisfied sigh and held out the glass. “Sweet and cold. Sure hits the spot. Like what I’ve done to your garden?”

“It’s wonderful. I can’t begin to tell you the time and the blisters you have saved me.” She took the empty cup, the glass warm against her fingertips from the breadth of his hand. “I suppose you’ll want to wait for my uncle after this.”

“If you think I plowed your garden to get on your uncle’s good side, then you’d be wrong.” He scanned the fields, the wind tousling his dark hair, looking pirate-tough and lawman-strong. “It seemed the right thing to do is all.”

“So the truth is out. You’re an honest-to-goodness gentleman.” Sarah’s heart fluttered. She couldn’t help the pull of warmth and attraction deep in her stomach. “I didn’t know they still existed.”

“I guess there’s a few of us good guys still roaming the earth.” He winked, and the fine smile lines around his eyes crinkled handsomely. Taking a step back and away from her, he tipped his hat so he could scan the sky. “The sun is nearly straight up. I’d best be on my way. I have business in town.”

“My uncle and his family should be returning soon. Would you like to stay for the noon meal?”

“Nothing against you, Sarah, but your uncle and I are not going to be friendly, be it over a dinner table or not.” He gathered the reins and his mare sidestepped and turned neatly, hauling the disengaged plow to the barn.

Every step he took was a powerful one. The way he walked sure could affect a woman. The straight line of his shoulders and the breadth of his back, his lean hips and long trim legs. He had just enough muscle to make a woman feel tingly all the way to her toes. And yet not too brawny so there was an inborn grace to him, like a cougar prowling his territory.

Sarah dragged in a deep breath, but it didn’t chase away the flutter of attraction in her chest or drain the heat from her face. Besides, Gage Gatlin didn’t have the look of a courting man. He was friendly and polite, that was true enough, but he didn’t catch her gaze and hold it with interest like others had done—before they’d met Ella.

And it wasn’t as if she would attract any man’s attention dressed in her work clothes. This morning battling the chickens and finding their feathers snagged in her braid. And now in the often-patched dress she wore only for messy work, a man would have to have extremely poor eyesight to find her the least bit attractive.

Looking down, Sarah brushed a streak on the front of her skirt. She sat on the steps, working at the dirt stain on her dress. It was vanity, and she knew it, but she couldn’t help the embarrassment heating her face.

Twice now Gage Gatlin had seen her at practically her worst. Goodness, there was more dirt on the other side of her skirt. She looked as if she’d been rolling in the garden patch instead of hoeing it.

Land sakes, she did have bigger problems to face than how she looked to a complete stranger. And that it mattered just a little—all right, maybe a whole lot—bothered her. She was a country girl and always would be.

Anyone could see by simply looking that Gage Gatlin was a man of means. Not that he wore a coat and tie like the men in town with fine jobs and hired servants in their large brick homes, but Sarah could see it all the same. It was in the steel of his spine and the controlled confidence that shone in him like a winter sun.

Ready to go, Gage Gatlin returned, mounted on his fine mare. “I’ll see you around, ma’am.”

“Good luck with my uncle.”

He tipped his hat like a man out of a legend. Her heart flip-flopped once—just a little bit—as she watched him ride away. All myth and dream, disappearing into the vast prairie.

And he was far too fine for her.

Sarah looked after him, although there was nothing but brown prairie and a dust plume where his horse had walked. She’d learned long ago that a person often didn’t get what they wanted. So it wasn’t too hard to let the air out of her chest and her wishes with it.

So, what did it matter if Gage Gatlin was not the man for her? There was someone destined for her, someone kind and caring who could look past the five-year-old dress with the streaks of dirt on it and see the real her. He was out there somewhere, and he’d be worth the wait.

What she’d better do now was get back to the house and check on her daughter. Sarah stood and noticed ten naked toes peeking from beneath her hem.

No, it couldn’t be. She blinked, but her bare feet were still there. She wasn’t wearing her shoes. The whole time Gage Gatlin was here, she’d been exposing her bare feet like some sort of strumpet.

Embarrassment burned through her like a grass fire, and she started to laugh. Gee, he had to notice. Laughing harder, she covered her mouth with her hand to keep from waking Ella. See? That’s what she got for being prideful and fretting about her appearance.

A floorboard squeaked behind her. “Ma, is it dinner yet? I’m awful hungry.”

Ella appeared, thin and pale, in the shadowed hallway. Sarah forgot everything, even a man as handsome as Gage Gatlin, as love for her daughter filled her up. She folded the spindly little girl into her arms and held her tight. It hadn’t been that long ago when she’d feared her daughter would not live. “Are you feeling better, sweetie?”

“Yeah, but I wish I didn’t get so tired all the time.” Ella rubbed a fist over her forehead as if her head still hurt.

Sarah pressed a kiss to her child’s brow. “You’ll feel better after you eat. Come, let me get you some dinner.”

“I wanna drumstick.” Ella collapsed in a chair and propped her elbows on the table edge, her blond hair escaping from her braids in a sleepy tangle. “It’s nice with the cousins gone. Real nice.”

There was no denying how difficult times had been staying in this house, but it wasn’t as if they’d had another choice. Sarah slipped the platter from the warming oven. “We’re grateful to them for letting us stay, remember?”

“I know, I know. But do you have to stay here forever?”

“Not forever, baby, but it is hard to say when we can leave.” Sarah kept her voice light, knowing her girl couldn’t understand how tough the world was for a woman alone.

“As soon as our medical bills are paid off, we’ll get our own place. I promise.” Sarah set the plumpest drumstick on a blue enamel plate alongside two big potatoes. “There’s carrot sticks in the covered bowl in front of you.”

Ella found one and crunched into it. “Ma, could it be a house painted white and pretty?”

“We’ll see.” She set the plate in front of her daughter. “Clean your plate, or I’ll have to string you up by your toes from the maple tree.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “I know, I know, and I’d better drink every drop of my milk or you’ll flog me.”

“I’m glad you know how things run around here.” Sarah reached for the pitcher. “Do you feel up to helping me plant the garden this afternoon?”

“Sure,” Ella said around a mouthful of potato.

“Don’t forget the bread.” Sarah set the glass of milk on the table and nudged the covered basket closer.

A clatter rose in the yard outside. A second later two small boys charged into the house. Pearl followed, carrying squalling Baby Davie on one hip. His twin was silent but red-faced, balanced across Pearl’s other arm.

Sarah hurried to help. “Here, let me take Davie—”

“You’d better take him because I’m worn out.” Pearl thrust the year-old child into Sarah’s arms as if eager to be rid of him. “At least you got the garden turned while I was gone.”

Remember to be grateful. Remember how no other relatives had offered to take you in. “I have lunch ready to set on the table. All you have to do is sit and rest.”

“We ate in town.” Without an apology, Pearl headed back outside to shout at the children to come in and get started on their chores.

Sarah adjusted Baby Davie on her hip and patted his back, trying to comfort him.

With any luck, Pearl had brought the newspaper back from town and it was full of job advertisements.

Sarah might be down on her luck, but that only meant there was no place to go but up.

Good luck had to be around the corner. Right?

Gage climbed the Buffalo Inn’s carpeted staircase to the third floor where he knew his daughter would be waiting. Gentle spring sunshine streamed through windows and cast a golden glow onto the bed where his little girl sat, her nose in a book.

“Pa!” Lucy leaped off the mattress, her book tumbling to the quilt. “Did you buy this one? Do we got a new home?”

He laughed as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Hold on now, that’s no way for a little lady to behave.”

“I ain’t no lady, Pa. Did you buy it?” Her eyes searched his and she clapped her hands together. “You did! I know you did.”

“Yep. We got ourselves a home. Now don’t go getting your hopes up too high. The place needs a lot of work. Did you behave for Mrs. McCullough?”

“Sorta.” The seven-year-old shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I tried. Honest.”

“She didn’t try hard enough,” Mrs. McCullough reported from the chair in the corner, where she gathered her embroidery things. “I must say I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Gatlin. You charmed me into agreeing to watch this child and I have come to regret it.”

What did Lucy do now? he wondered, but did his best to look apologetic. He might need Mrs. McCullough’s help again. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll pay you extra for your trouble.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. McCullough’s gaze narrowed as he placed dollar bills on her outstretched palm. A small pile accumulated, and she nodded. “I suppose it’s not her fault, the poor motherless thing. You find a mother for that girl. Just my piece of advice.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t think much of her advice, but he held his tongue and closed the door behind her.

“Pa, I’m dyin’!” In agony, Lucy hopped up and down, her twin braids bouncing. “Tell me. I gotta know.”

She had a knack for changing the subject but luckily he wasn’t easily distracted from the problem. “I expect you to do better next time I leave you with Mrs. McCullough.”

“I’ll do my best, Pa, you know that. But sometimes it’s just hard.” Lucy sighed, full of burdens. “I’m only a little girl.”

“You aren’t foolin’ me one bit, darlin’.” He tugged on one end of her twin braids. “Find your hat and I’ll take you out to our new place. It’s tumbling down, but I can fix that.”

“I know, ’cuz you can fix anything.” She dashed to the bureau. “I got my sunbonnet, but I can’t do the ribbons.”

“Then it’s a darn good thing you have me around.” He caught the blue straps of her sunbonnet and made a bow beneath her chin. “You’re the prettiest girl this side of the Rockies. I’m proud to be seen with you.”

“You have to say that. You’re my pa.” Lucy beamed at him anyway and slipped her small hand in his.

In the livery, he saddled Lucy’s little mare while she pulled sugar cubes from her pocket for the horse. When he had the cinch nice and tight, he gave her a hand up.

“Do you know what, Pa? I’m sure glad I got this new saddle.” Lucy settled into the leather like a natural-born horseman. “It’s got a good horn. Know what I need now? A rope.”

“We’ll see.”

“That’s what you say when you mean no.”

“I mean, let me think about it.” He mounted and led the way toward the main street. “Come on. We’ll take the long way through town so you can see the sights.”

Lucy reined the mare into step beside his. Her ruffled skirt hem caught the breeze and the matching blue sunbonnet shaded her face.

Would she be happy here? He watched her study the storefronts and shoppers scurrying along the boardwalk. A frown dug into her forehead. Her mouth twisted.

Finally she nodded, her inspection complete. “This don’t look like a bad place to live.”

“That’s what I figured.” Gage tipped his hat to keep the high sun out of his eyes.

“Know what, Pa? I don’t see a school. There’s gotta be a school.”

“And so there is, that way.” He gestured down the street that cut between the hardware store and the shoemaker’s. “We’ll get you enrolled Monday morning.”

“I can see it.” Lucy stood in her stirrups, straining to see the whitewashed building down the street. “Oh, Pa, a real school. It’s got a bell and everything.”

“It sure looks fine.” Gage nodded toward a neat little storefront. “There’s a seamstress shop. I figure we can get you fit for new school dresses with the way you’re growing.”

“I keep gettin’ bigger.” Lucy hitched up the brim of her sunbonnet as she gazed on the woman-filled boardwalk just outside the mercantile. “Do you know what, Pa? There sure are a lot of pretty ladies in this town.”

Gage kept riding.

“Awful pretty ladies, Pa.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“I just had to be sure.”

He chuckled, not one bit fooled by her sly innocence. “You know I’m not the marrying kind.”

“You married my ma.”

“And I could marry some other woman, is that what you think?”

“Sure. A girl needs a ma. Mrs. McCullough just said so. What if she’s right? I reckon she could be.”

There was too much hope in those sparkling eyes, and it troubled him. “Lucky for you I’m an exceptional father.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, but you can’t sew.”

“What if I learn?”

That earned a giggle and effectively ended the conversation. He breathed a sigh of relief. Settling down was the right step to take for Lucy’s sake, but that didn’t mean he had to find her a mother. The thought of taking a wife again—

He shuddered all the way to his soul. Once he’d been carried away by what he thought was love. But in time it had crumbled to dust.

The ride was a pleasant one across a prairie awakening to spring. Birds fluttered about, gathering makings for nests. And a few fat jackrabbits darted across the road, daring to escape their warm warrens. Lucy remained quiet during the ride to their land that spread out for miles.

He showed her all the horses, hungry and half wild, that dotted the fallow fields, unable to hold back his excitement. His dreams were so close he could taste them.

“These are all ours?” Lucy hopped down to poke her hand through the fence and rub a filly’s velvet nose. “Every single one?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Sure is!” Lucy gazed with wonder at the large herd. “They look so sad.”

“They’ve got us now. We’ll feed them and make them happy again. It will be a big job. Do you think we can do it?”

Lucy tilted her head to one side, pursing her mouth as she considered. “I’m glad we live here, Pa. Because I think these horses needed us to take care of them.”

“That’s the way I see it, too.”

So far, so good. His dream for Lucy was taking shape. He’d put in corrals, leave the far fields for grazing, build stables all along the rise—

“Pa? That’s our house? Are we gonna live there?”

“I figure I can have a new house up in a bit.” Gage knuckled back his hat and watched her carefully. “One that’s good and strong with enough room for the two of us. Would that be all right with you?”

“As long as it has a veranda. ’Cuz ladies like to sit on them.”

“If that’s important to you, then it’s a deal. In a month I’ll have us a new little house with a nice wide porch.”

“With a swinging bench. The kind ladies like. And we gotta have flowers. Lots and lots of them. We won’t get anybody nice if all we got is weeds.”

“If you have your way, this place will be so fancy, women will come from miles away, flocking around us, proposing and fainting and all sorts of nonsense.”

“Oh, Pa.” Lucy flicked one braid behind her thin shoulder, done arguing.

Thank heaven.

She tiptoed up the front steps, the aged boards groaning beneath her weight. “Are we gonna sleep in here? It looks dirty.”

“I figure we’ll stay a few more nights at the inn. Mr. Buchanan is busy packing up and needs a day to move out. First thing tomorrow we can start fixing this place.”

“It’s gonna take a lot of fixin’.” She slipped her hand in his—so much trust. “You’re gonna make it real nice, aren’t ya, Pa?”

“You bet.”

“Good. Can I go pet the horses again?”

“Sure thing.”

It was a pleasure to watch her traipse down the weed-strewn path. Little and reed-slim, filled with such important hopes.

He was all she had in the world, and he didn’t want to let her down.

Maybe on these high Montana plains, things would fall their way.

Chapter Three

“I t’s gonna be trouble, that I can guarantee you.” Seated at the kitchen table, Milt slurped the last of the coffee from his cup. “Heard in the saloon last night that Buchanan sold his land to some drifter. For nothin’ more than a song.”

Sarah heard Pearl exhale in frustration. She didn’t know what had gone on with old Buchanan, but she knew her uncle. Milt wasn’t a man of high moral fiber.

Half listening, she finished wiping dry the last of the baking dishes and cracked the oven door to check on the pies. Golden and bubbling. Perfect. She donned the oven mitts and carried the pie plates to the windowsill to cool.

“Surely not to a drifter!” Aunt Pearl was beside herself. “We can’t have someone like that for a neighbor. What was the old man thinking?”

“Hard to say, and after all I done for him. All I know is that no drifter is gonna take what’s mine.” Milt’s chair screeched against the wood floor as he pushed away from the table. “Sarah, you bring me out a slice of that pie when it’s cool enough to cut.”

She nodded, turning her back as she put away the mixing bowl. A chill curled around her spine and she shivered. What did Milt mean? Would he cause trouble for Gage Gatlin?

Gage’s image filled her thoughts—tough, capable, everything a Western man should be. By the look of him, he could handle Milt.

Then again, it never hurt to have a little warning just in case. Sarah considered the four pies cooling on the sill of the now open window.

“Ma, I’m ready.” Ella deposited Baby Davie into his settle. “Got my shoes on and everything.”

“Good. Help me pick which pie looks the best.”

“That one.” Ella pointed. “Oops. I gotta find my sunbonnet.”

“Quick, before Aunt Pearl discovers something else she wants done.” Sarah slipped the chosen pie into the prepared basket. Why was she so jumpy? Surely not over the prospect of seeing Gage Gatlin again. And where had the pie cutter gone to?

She yanked open the top drawer. There. She cut Milt a generous piece of still steaming pastry and set that in the basket, too.

“It’s a waste to welcome a drifter as a neighbor.” Pearl appeared with the ironing basket on her hip. “I hope you’re not taking that extra pie to him.”

“He’s a horseman, not a drifter.”

“A horseman? You mean a wrangler? Or one of them hired men paid to clean out barns?” Pearl wrinkled her nose. “Either way, he won’t be here long. Not if Milt has anything to say about it.”

Sarah held her tongue and headed for the door. “Do you need anything from town?”

“A spool of brown thread. Milt tore the knee in his trousers again. Don’t dawdle too long. I need you to get supper tonight.”

“I’ll be back in time. Ella, are you ready?”

“I found it.” The little girl breezed through the small, cramped front room dragging her sunbonnet by the strings. “Are we gonna cut through the fields?”

“It’s nicer that way.” Sarah let the screen door bang closed behind them, grabbed a spare shawl, and tied on her bonnet. The brim shaded her eyes as she headed out into the sunny fields.

The earth stretched brown for as far as she could see, but there at her feet were new green shoots struggling up through last summer’s tangled stalks. Like hope. She wished the same for her life. For new opportunities to come her way.

Surely this spot of bad luck she’d been caught in for the past year couldn’t last. At least it was easy to think she might be in for a turn of fortune with the sweet breezes snapping in her skirts and the robins swooping through the fields.

After giving her uncle his slice of pie from her basket, she let Ella skip ahead. Prairie dogs popped out of their dens to scold them, their sharp chatter blending with the music of the plains.

A creek gurgled through the fields. A white-tailed deer bolted from the bank as Ella hopped from one rock to the other.

“Look at me, Ma!” Her twin braids flew as she leaped. “We don’t have to get mud on our shoes.”

“You usually like getting mud on your shoes.” It was easy to laugh when the sun was shining and her worries felt so far away.

Midstream, Ella continued to jump from rock to rock. Then her arms shot out as she fought for balance on a slippery-looking rock. Her skirt swirled around her knees. “Look! I didn’t fall.”

“You’re doing great, sugar.” Sarah held her breath as her little girl made one mighty jump and landed safely on the grassy bank.

It was like a gift, seeing her like this. A year ago Ella had been bedridden, suffering from illness, her future uncertain.

Now she was skipping across the field like any healthy little girl.

Every sacrifice, the long work hours and everyday hardship had been worth it.

“That wind is still a little cool.” Sarah took the shawl hung across her arm and laid it over her daughter’s too thin shoulders. “I don’t want you to pay any mind to what Aunt Pearl said about Mr. Gatlin. He’s no drifter. Look, there’s his wagon.”

“Maybe he’s got kids?”

“He didn’t tell me if he does. And if he doesn’t, then you’ll make friends when you start back to school.”

“Oh.”

How one single word could hold so much sadness, Sarah didn’t know. She ached for her little girl. “Remember how much you loved school?”

Ella nodded slowly, her braids bobbing. “I wasn’t behind then. A whole year, Ma.”

“It won’t take long for you to catch up.”

“Yeah.” But the fear remained.

Sarah wrapped her arm around Ella’s shoulders and pulled her close. “We won’t be stuck living with Uncle Milt forever. Things are changing, even though you might not know it. Pretty soon we’ll be living somewhere else, and all these worries about school will be behind you.”

“And maybe I could get my own horse?”

“In the grand scheme of things, maybe.”

“Look, someone’s comin’.”

Sure enough, there were two riders—Gage Gatlin, strong-shouldered and tall, and at his side a little girl, her face hidden by the brim of her sunbonnet. Her twin braids bounced in time with the small mare’s gait. Could it be? Was Gage Gatlin a father?

“Hello, Miss Redding.” He tipped his hat. “Don’t tell me you brought baked goods. I can smell that cherry pie from here.”

“I thought it might be the neighborly thing to do. And it’s ‘Mrs.’” She lifted the basket lid to show off the pie’s golden crust. “Fresh from the oven.”

“Yum.” The girl rode closer. She was button-cute and lean, her neat braids as black as ink. She had Gage’s sparkling eyes and his quick smile. “You brought a whole pie just for us?”

“That’s right. To welcome you as our neighbors. We live on the other side of the creek.” Sarah lifted the basket so the girl could see. “I’m told I’m not a bad baker, so I hope you enjoy it.”

“I bet it’s real good. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Call me Sarah. And this is my daughter, Ella. When I met your father earlier, I didn’t know he had a little girl. That’s a very pretty mare you have.”

“Thanks, I’m Lucy and I’m a great horseman like my pa.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Lucy.” Sarah held the handle so the girl could grasp the basket—it wasn’t too big or heavy for the child to carry.

Ella took a step closer, unable to take her eyes off the mare. “What do you call your horse?”

“Her name is Scout and she’s an Arabian. Wanna take this to the shanty with me? Pa says it’s a real eyesore.”

Ella nodded, and Lucy dismounted. The girls headed off across the prairie, side by side. Sarah felt warm clear through watching them.

“So you’re a missus and a mother.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Considering you told me you weren’t married.” Leather creaked as he dismounted.

“I’m not anymore.” She steeled her heart, but it still made her sad to remember.

He looked sad, too. “Lucy’s mother died when she was three. Scarlet fever.”

“I’m sorry. Ella and I have been through a tough bout with diphtheria, so I can only imagine.”

He fell into stride beside her. “I suppose that’s why you’re living with your uncle.”

“For now. I had to give up my housekeeping job when Ella became ill. In these hard times, it was difficult finding relatives who would take us in.” She fell silent, feeling his gaze intent on her, and she blushed. She’d said too much. “Now that Ella is stronger, we’ll be moving on soon.”

“Is that so? Where to?”

“I have no idea, but I’m certain the right opportunity is waiting for me. I only need to find it.” Sarah swept a grasshopper from her skirt and noticed Gage’s jaw tighten.

His mouth became a hard frown. “Opportunity?”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t talking about marriage.”

“You got me nervous.” He winked, knuckling back his hat. “A man can’t be too careful.”

“You’re safe from me.” She liked the way his mouth curved in the corners, not quite a grin, but enough to make the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m looking for love. That’s an entirely different thing.”

“You’ll be lookin’ a long time.”

“You don’t believe in love?”

“Let’s just say I believe in something more practical.”

The shanty came into sight over the rise, and Gage could see Lucy’s mare standing in the shade. The two girls burst through the shadowed doorway and into the sun. Gage’s daughter held the reins while her new friend petted the mare.

Sarah looked happy watching them, lit up from within. “Our girls seem to be getting along.”

“Sure do, with their heads together.” He was glad to see that.

Lucy was quick to make friends; she had to be, always moving from place to place, always the new girl. Now was her chance to make lasting friendships like other kids her age. That was one of the reasons he was here.

Marriage wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t deny his great relief to know the pretty woman at his side was only being neighborly. “It was thoughtful of you to bring the pie.”

“That isn’t the only reason I’m here.” The gray brim of her sunbonnet shaded her soft face, and she blushed as she kicked at the bunch grass at her feet. “There’s something you should know. Milt isn’t happy you bought the place.”

“He’s about to lose his stolen water supply.” Gage hadn’t met Mr. Owens, but he’d asked around enough to know the kind of man he was. “I can handle your uncle.”

“I know you can. But it’s always better to be prepared. He said something about making sure you weren’t here long.”

“Then I’ll have to show him how wrong he is.”

“Good.” Her chin came up and it was easy to see the strength in her. The steel.

He could imagine how well she’d cared for her daughter, all alone, and endured hardship to do it. And yet it hadn’t embittered her. He admired that about her and something else—the way she walked. She was all gentle beauty. He couldn’t help noticing how her pale cotton dress skimmed her slim, very attractive curves—and that troubled him.

Of all the women he’d come across over the years, why was he noticing this one?

Just lonely, he figured. Last night in his bed at the inn, he’d felt alone. Endlessly alone. Maybe it was simply being in town—he hadn’t stayed in one for years—where all those houses were spread out in orderly rows, windows glowing cozily in the dark.

Memories of better times had sailed over him. Of how good it felt to come home to find baby Lucy crawling across the polished floor and his wife smiling a welcome.

For one instant it was easy to want that again. The comfortable companionship after the supper dishes were done, joining his wife to read in front of the fire until bedtime.

Nice memories, but they came hand in hand with the bad. The evenings that hadn’t been pleasant. The woman who’d looked at him with hurt in her eyes, with anger and resentment. Remembering how hard he’d tried to make things right and failed, put to an end any wishing.

Loneliness ached hollow and cold, but it was a better state than marriage.

As they neared the house they could hear the girls’s happy chatter, bringing him back to the present. To the woman standing before him.

“If there is some trouble between me and your uncle, will it cause problems for you?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” Her problems weren’t his, after all.

They’d reached the shade of the shanty, where stacks of new lumber glowed like honey against the earth. A handsaw was tucked safely in the back of a battered wagon.

He was an industrious man, by the looks of it. He’d probably been up at dawn working to accomplish so much. “You plan to repair the shanty?”

“Repair it? More like demolish it and start from the ground up. It’s likely to tumble over any minute.” He tossed her a wink that made her miss a step.

His hand shot out to steady her. His fingers seared her skin. Even though she was upright and both feet were square on the ground, she still felt as if she were falling. There had to be something wrong with her—and now she knew why she’d been jumpy earlier.

Attraction for Gage Gatlin tingled through her like a fever.

“I’d best collect Ella and be on my way,” she said as an excuse. “I can see you’re busy, and we have errands to run.”

“You’re walking to town? It’s a long way. If you’d care to wait, I’ll be heading back in a couple of hours.”

His offer was kindly spoken, neighbor to neighbor, but he’d done enough for her. “I can’t wait that long, thank you just the same.”

Behind her, she heard steeled horseshoes clomping on the earth. She turned around in time to see a sleek black mare, neck arched and mane flying in the breeze, pulling a polished buggy along the rutted driveway. Sarah recognized the two young women perched on the shaded seat. The banker’s daughter and the daughter of a well-to-do neighbor.

“Good morning, Mr. Gatlin.” The young woman holding the reins set the brake and held out her gloved hand. “I’m Susan Lockwood. My father owns the bank in town. He told me that you purchased this charming piece of land.”

Gage tipped his hat and took a slow step forward. “Yes, miss. Is there some problem? Did your father send you?”

“Oh, no. We only wanted to welcome you.” Susan pressed her hand on his and allowed him to help her from the buggy. “This is my dearest friend, Louisa. Louisa, hand me the welcome basket.”

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Gatlin,” Louisa said with a rare pleasantness, giving her new lawn skirt a flick. “I hope meeting our poor Widow Redding hasn’t given you the wrong impression of our community. Why, I’m practically your neighbor.”

“How lucky for me.” Gage quirked one brow.

Sarah felt out of place and took a backward step, thinking of her home-baked pie as she spotted the fancy tins piled at the top of Susan Lockwood’s fine basket.

She didn’t belong here. Next to the well-appointed banker’s daughter, she felt as plain as the earth beneath her feet. Better to leave before she embarrassed herself, so she took one last glance at Gage, standing bold as the sun. He tossed her a look as if to say “Help!”

She shook her head. There would be no rescue for him. It served him right for being so handsome—and for not believing in love. What had he said? He believed in something more practical.

She did feel sorry for him.

“Come on, Ella, it’s time to go.”

Huddled close to Lucy, Ella gave the mare one last pat. How wistful she looked, just wishing. Her eyes were so big in her pale face. There was so much Ella deserved. So much Sarah wanted to give her.

The first chance I’m able, I’m going to buy her a horse. New towns were cropping up all over the West as the open prairies became more settled. There had to be a job for her somewhere out there. She was sure of it.

“Sarah?” Lucy dashed over to her and peered around the corner of the shanty. “Who are those women?”

“The blond one lives down the road.”

“So she lives real close?”

“Yes. The other lady is her friend from town.”

“Ladies come up to my pa all the time.”

“I’m sure they do.” Sarah felt foolish—at least she knew she wasn’t alone in her attraction to the handsome horseman. She was lonely, after all, and wishing for a better life. For someone to love. It never hurt a woman to dream.

“Can Ella come to play sometime?”

“Anytime.” Sarah took her daughter’s hand. “If you need anything, Lucy, our house is just over the creek and down the rise. It’s the first shanty you see.”

“I’ll tell my pa that you said that.” Lucy squinted in the direction of the fancy buggy gleaming in the sunshine.

A movement caught Gage’s eye. Sarah was leaving? She couldn’t leave him here with these girls. He tried to call out to her, but Sarah was too far away, waving goodbye. Her skirt snapped around her shoe tops, and he remembered her small pale feet, bare and smudged with soft dirt.

Louisa cleared her throat to grab his attention, but nothing was likely to do that.

“Excuse me, ladies. My daughter will enjoy your gifts.” He tipped his hat, taking the basket only because handing it back would be rude. He didn’t want to offend the banker’s daughter—at least, not too damn much. Yet.

He left them standing there, turning his back on their huffs of disapproval as they left. That had been a waste of his time, but at least he knew the banker couldn’t be trusted.

He’d bet the only reason those girls were here with their fancy basket and simpering smiles was because Mr. Lockwood had revealed the size of Gage’s bank account.

“I see the welcomes have started.” Sarah didn’t hesitate on her way down the road as he caught up with her. “Remember what I said about my uncle.”

There was something about her. As he let her go on her way, Gage felt a thud in his chest, a foolish thud, because he knew darn well where listening to his heart led.

“Ella’s ma is really nice.” Lucy’s hand slipped into his, her fingers warm and small. Trust glittered in her dark eyes and something else.

Longing.

“Mrs. Redding told me she isn’t looking for marriage. In case you have any ideas.”

“Aw, Pa. I already got ideas.” She leaned her cheek against his arm, all innocence and dreams.

She’d been too young to remember how it had been, so he didn’t blame her for wishing, but he had to be honest with her. Maybe in time she’d understand.

He wouldn’t be walking down the aisle a second time.

Lucy took the basket from him and lugged it into the shanty. Her footsteps faded away, and he was alone on the windblown prairie, staring after a woman in a simple checked dress.

She grew smaller with distance and still he watched. Her blue skirt became nothing more than a dot on the brown plains, and he could not turn away.

One thing was sure. When it came to Mrs. Sarah Redding, he’d be wise to keep his distance.

Chapter Four

L ate-night weariness tugged at Sarah like a cold north wind as she wrung water from the mop. Droplets tinkled in the bucket and the soap sudsed, sending up tiny bubbles to pop in the candlelight.

Over the past year she’d washed this floor so many times, she didn’t make a sound or need more than the single flickering light as she bent to her work. A board squeaked beneath her foot, the only sound in the silent hotel.

Earning her keep at her aunt and uncle’s homestead left her little time to earn the money she needed. There was always an expensive new medicine to pay for or new shoes to buy, for Ella was always growing. What was left of her salary went to pay the doctor.

It was times like these when she was exhausted from a long week of working days and half the nights and when living with her aunt and uncle seemed unbearable, she didn’t know how she could keep going.

Her small weekly payments seemed to make no difference; the debt she was in seemed insurmountable. When she was falling asleep on her feet and her hands bled from lye soap, it seemed her life was never going to improve.

She was simply tired, and she knew it. Tomorrow, when the sun was rising and the breeze brought with it the sweetness of the morning prairie, she would feel differently. She always did. She took heart in that. Today had been an especially difficult one.

Uncle Milt’s mood had not improved by suppertime, and he grew into a rage when told of the latest gossip concerning their new neighbor, Gage Gatlin. Sarah shivered, remembering the look in her uncle’s eyes when he spoke of the man he believed to be a drifter, the man who’d taken cattle that Milt had decided were his.

A shivery sense of foreboding that sat deep in the pit of her stomach stung worse than her hands as she dunked the mop into the pail and wrung the excess water. She had a bad feeling about this. Milt wasn’t the most kind or honest of men. How far would he go? Would he steal those animals? Or worse?

Sarah’s chest felt tight with worry as she gripped the mop handle more tightly and accidentally banged the side of the bucket.

A metallic clank shot through the silence like a gunshot. She froze, listening to the echo fade in the long corridor. Wincing, she gently eased the mop back into the water, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t startled anyone awake.

The door in the shadowed hallway flew open and a man’s broad shape emerged as dark as the night, only a silhouette against the pitch-black room behind him.

Sarah felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. With water dripping onto the floor, she carried her mop with her as she dared to step toward him. “I’m truly sorry I woke you, sir. I—”

There was a metallic click that echoed eerily through the night. Sarah froze when she realized it was the sound of a revolver being uncocked and lowered. The man was armed. She didn’t know what to say as he jammed the Colt into the leather holster he carried and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. I guess that sounded too much like a gunshot to a man sound asleep.” He lifted one sculpted shoulder in a shrug.

Gage Gatlin. The mop handle slipped from her grip and clattered on the wet floor. She jumped when the noise bounced down the hallway like cannon fire. Oops. That wasn’t helping her job any. “I suppose that sounded like a band of road agents taking over the hotel.”

Before she could kneel to rescue her mop, he was there, bending down and into the light, his dark hair tousled handsomely, his jaw rough and his eyes weary.

So very weary. Sarah could only stare, mesmerized, as he straightened, only wearing his trousers, unsnapped and unbuckled, the faint lamplight caressing the span of his bare chest and abdomen.

A very fine chest and abdomen. Sarah swallowed hard, feeling heat burn her throat and sear her face. It was entirely indecent to notice the light dusting of fine dark hair that splayed across his chest and arrowed down his firm, toned abdomen to where his silver belt buckle winked in the shadowed light from downstairs.

“I didn’t know you worked here.” He held out the dripping mop, his stance open, a crook of curiosity arching his brows. “Your uncle and aunt don’t keep you busy enough?”

She blushed harder, but for a different reason. He’d said his words kindly enough, although it didn’t stop the shame from creeping through her.

Remembering how lovely the banker’s daughter had looked this morning when she’d visited Mr. Gatlin, Sarah felt plain indeed. Small and mousy and as dull as the patched dress she wore.

She didn’t want to be attracted to Mr. Gage Gatlin anyway, so it didn’t matter what she looked like. Gathering her pride, she straightened her spine, looked him in the eye and took possession of her mop. “Living on the homestead has become rather dull, so I spend my nights in town seeking one thrill after the next.”

“You strike me as that sort of woman. Far too bold for propriety’s sake.”

“That’s what everyone always tells me.” As if to prove her point, she dunked the mop in the bucket and knelt, her soft skirts swirling around her, and wrung the excess water with a twist of her small, delicate hands.

Gage swallowed. “And you spend your free time roaming the halls of this hotel, I take it. Causing trouble wherever you go.”

“That’s right. I’ve even been known to be so brash as to scrub pots in the kitchen, if it’s been a late night for the cook.”

“Ma’am, with your reputation I’d best stay clear of you.”

That made her laugh, light and quiet, and how that made his pulse surge through his veins. Fast and thick and hot enough to make him take notice of the way her apron clung to her shape as she swished the mop across the floor between them. He was a man and couldn’t help noticing the soft nip of her waist and the gentle sway of her breasts as she worked.

Gage tamped down a hotter, more primal response. He was tired, that was all, and troubled by the nightmare that had torn him awake tonight. By the remnants of a dream that had been shattered when he’d heard the pop of metal in the corridor.

Memory was a strange thing, making the past so real he could taste it, smell it. He wondered if there would ever come a time or a place where he felt safe. Had he come far enough? Would he find peace in this small Montana town? On these high, desolate plains?

Sarah Redding wiped at the floor with determined strokes, leaving tiny soap bubbles popping in the air above his bare toes. She was looking awfully hard at the floor, and now that his head was clear and the nightmare gone, he could see why.

Half naked, with a holstered gun in one hand. Now, didn’t that beat all? “Guess I’d best apologize. Next time I hear a commotion in the hallway, I’d better pull on a shirt first. If you come here often, that is.”

“Five nights every week.”

He reached into his room and found his shirt hanging on a peg by feel. “It’s two in the morning. When does your wild night on the town end?”

“When I reach the end of the hall.” Her mop dove playfully at his feet.

Being a wise man, he backed into the threshold. “So, you work half the night, and then you’re up before dawn to feed the chickens.”

“Sure. It keeps me busy. Out of trouble.”

He heard what she didn’t say. When you have a child, you do what it takes to provide for her. He knew all about that. And he’d had his share of seeing what happened when parents didn’t. Or worse, for that matter.

He closed his mind against the memories he didn’t want. From a time when he’d worn a silver badge on his chest.

“As you can see, I get into my fair share of trouble.” Her mop bumped the wall, scrubbing the last of the floor. “Banging my bucket in the hall, waking up paying guests. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

“I would have woken anyhow.”

“A light sleeper?”

“A troubled one.” It surprised him to admit the truth, but the low-spoken words escaped from his tongue and he shrugged, bashful at revealing so much.

“The life of a widow. Or widower.” Her voice softened and she straightened, turning to gaze up at him with understanding alight in her gentle blue eyes.

It had been a long time since he could look on the world and see goodness in the people in it. And it touched him right in the center of his chest, in the place where his heart used to be.

Where he hoped it still was.

“Don’t tell me you ride home alone this time of night,” he said as he lifted the bucket for her.

“All right, I won’t tell you.” She lifted her chin a notch as she stole the pail from his grip. “Now that I know you’re a light sleeper, I shall try harder tomorrow night not to wake you.”

A frown furrowed a disapproving line across his brow. “Your uncle thinks so little of your protection that he would allow this?”

“The countryside is safe.”

“No countryside is that safe.” He passed a hand over his eyes, looking troubled, looking weary. “Let me grab my boots and I will see you home.”

“No, that’s not necessary—”

“I’m not going to sleep at all if I let you go alone.”

“I have done so hundreds of times,” she reassured him, touched that he—nearly a perfect stranger—would care for her welfare when her kin cared so little.

Still, she was not his responsibility and she’d been independent far too long to lean on a man now. “Go back to your room, Gage Gatlin, and rest well. I’ll be fine on my own, and besides, what are you going to do? See me home every night?”

“Well, now, I admit I haven’t thought that far.” He flashed that grin at her, softened by sleep, edged by the dark shadow of a day’s growth.

He was a charming man. “You’ve got a child to look after,” she reminded him, because it was the practical thing to do. It wasn’t as if he was attracted to her, the way she was to him. He was simply being neighborly. Gentlemanly. Polite. That was all.

She clutched her mop close as she headed down the hall. “Good night to you, Mr. Gatlin.”

He didn’t answer as she swished down the stairs and into the lamplight of the lobby.

Someday, she thought wistfully as she stowed the broom in the back hall closet and carried the bucket out the side door and into the alley. One day she would no longer be alone. Someday she would have the warm embrace of a man holding her close through the night. Know the welcome comfort of a good man’s love.

“Done for the night, then?” Mrs. McCullough asked from the front desk, her knitting needles pausing as she looked up, squinting through her spectacles. “You sure do look tired, Sarah. These late nights are too much for you. I can get you a morning shift in the kitchen—”

“I wish I could.” Sarah sighed, trying not to think of the work that awaited her each day at her aunt’s shanty. “See you tomorrow evening.”

Sarah stowed the empty bucket in the small closet and her coat sleeve brushed her shoulder. As she lifted the garment from the hook, she tried not to think of the long walk ahead. Weariness weighed down her muscles as she tripped down the crooked board steps and hurried down the dark, narrow alley.

Piano music from the nearby saloon rang sharp and tinny on the icy wind. Random snowflakes drifted through the shadows and clung to her eyelashes and the front of her cloak as she shivered, walking fast past the lit windows where rough men drank inside.

For the ten thousandth time she felt the old anger rise up, anger at the injustice of David’s death. It wasn’t his fault, Lord knew, but nights like this when exhaustion closed over her like a sickness and even her soul felt weary, she longed for the way her life had been. For her own humble home, a cozy log cabin in the Idaho mountains, where Baby Ella had banged pots and pans on the polished puncheon floors and David’s laughter rang as he made a story over the events of his day at the logging camp, where he’d worked.

She longed for that gentle peace she’d known cuddling him in their bed at night, listening to his quiet breathing and feeling the beat of his heart beneath her hand. Of how when he stirred in his sleep, he reached for her, pulling her against his warm strong body, holding her close.

And although she’d grieved him long and well, she missed all he had given her. She knew she couldn’t go back, couldn’t live for the past and try to resurrect it. But she ached to know that kind of happiness again, the kind of love David had taught her a man and woman could find, if they were honest and loving enough.

Remembering made the night colder and more desolate as she left the town behind her. Walking quickly and steadily down the road as dark as despair.

Perched in his stirrups, Gage could barely make out the shadow of Sarah Redding as she walked the deserted road. The prairie winds moaned, making the landscape seem alive. Dried grasses rasped, an owl glided low, startling the mare. Coyotes howled, close enough to make the skin prickle at the back of his neck.

Old instincts reared up, ones that had once served him well. He’d vowed to keep away from Sarah, and here he was, looking out for her, making sure she was safe in the night.

But from a distance of half a mile. That was keeping away from her, right? Thanks to the long, flat prairie, he could see the road for a good mile and the lonely woman on it, walking with a tired hobble that was almost a limp.

He told himself it was sympathy he felt—not attraction—for the woman with the circles beneath her eyes and the worn dresses. For the widow with a daughter who’d been ill. He knew what it was like to be alone in the world with the sole responsibility of a child. And it was the former lawman in him that made him uncomfortable with the thought of any woman walking alone, in a peaceable countryside or not, because cruelty could dwell anywhere.

The road rolled down a gentle incline, stealing Sarah from his sight. He waited as a distant cow’s moo carried on the breeze until she reemerged, a slim shadow of grace against the endless prairie.

Sarah slipped from his sight completely, and he nudged the mare forward, searching for her in the dark.

There she was. Outlined against the empty road and rolling prairie. Looks like she was right all along. Maybe Buffalo County was as safe as it appeared. No danger in any direction.

Feeling foolish, he circled the mare around, nosing her north toward town. Keeping the reins taut, he hesitated, not sure what it was that made him pause. He felt unsettled, and it wasn’t the coyotes’s call or the restless winds that made him hesitate and gaze out over the plains.

Loneliness did. A loneliness that felt as bleak as a night without dawn.

Gage waited until he could see Sarah’s faint shadow at her front door before he turned, riding the mare hard. He knew from experience that it would take many miles to drive the demons from his mind and the nightmares from his heart.

Maybe there’d come a day when he could outrun them forever.

“Know what, Pa?” Lucy tromped through the tall thistles, casting a long shadow across the timber he was sawing. She paused, hand on one hip as she waited for his undivided attention.

“What?” he said for the tenth time that morning.

“At breakfast, Mrs. McCullough told me the schoolteacher was real nice.”

“So I heard.” He’d been there, too, blurry-eyed from a night of hard riding and, when he’d returned to the inn, hours filled with troubled dreams.

“Do you know what?” This time she didn’t pause but went right on talking over the sound of the saw. “Her name is Miss Fitzpatrick. Guess that means she ain’t married.”

“Guess so.” The saw’s teeth caught in the stubborn wood and the metal screeched in protest. He held back a curse as he worked the damn thing loose.

“Know what, Pa?”

“What?”

“I sure hope Miss Fitzpatrick likes me. Not that I want to be her favorite or nothin’, ’cuz I get to be the favorite a lot.”

Gage leaned on the saw and studied his daughter. Sparkling and excited. This new teacher was apparently a big worry, but as much as he loved Lucy, he had to get this house built. There was a whole lot of work to do before the mares started to foal.

“I reckon Scout is wondering why you aren’t showing her the new spread.” He set back to work. “Why don’t you go ride her around so she can get to know the place?”

“Sure. Know what, Pa?”

“What, Lucy?”

“’Suppose there’s lots of girls and boys my age at that school?”

“I reckon so. Now go ride your mare.”

“Oh, all right.” Lucy sparkled. “Do you know what, Pa?”

“Lucy.”

She giggled, not the least bit perturbed by his mood. “I’m gonna go ride, but I want some of Sarah’s pie for lunch.”

“Go.” Gage bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

There went his little girl, dashing through the weeds. Lucy flourished wherever they’d landed, but she looked lighter somehow, as if this place suited her. She hopped over the rail fence and unwound Scout’s reins from the post. With a whoop, she leaped onto Scout’s withers and the two of them were off, streaking out of sight.

Just how long would she be able to stay out of trouble? He didn’t know. Lucy was a mystery to him, but he loved her. He shook his head, sank his saw into the cut and worked, sweat dripping down his face as the sun strengthened.

This was happiness. A beautiful morning. Hard work to occupy him. A day spread out before him without a single problem he couldn’t handle. He’d been needing this for a long time. Wandering from job to job, trying to put the past behind him hadn’t worked. Maybe the peace of this great land would be the balm he needed.

The timber broke apart and he wiped his brow with his shirt. He straightened, taking a breather. He could see Lucy loping Scout through the fields and into the creek. Water splashed everywhere.

The squeak of a buggy wheel spun him around. Was it Sarah? He didn’t know why his thoughts turned to her, maybe it was because he knew she lived close. When he spied the tasseled surrey drawn by a pair of matching gray Arabians, he couldn’t explain the disappointment that whipped through him. It wasn’t Sarah.

What was wrong with him? He needed his head checked, that’s what it was. A man opposed to marriage knew better than to start pining after a woman looking for matrimony.

“Mr. Gatlin, I presume?” The surrey squealed to a halt.

There, looking at him from beneath a fancy bonnet, was a beautiful redhead with a fetching smile. He knew the look of hope, having seen it a time or two before, and panic kicked through him like a cantankerous mule.

Being a brave man, he straightened his shoulders, told himself to buck up, and managed what he hoped was a cordial smile. “Howdy, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Then you are Mr. Gatlin.” Her smile widened, and there was something artificial about it, as if she’d practiced just that same striking curve of mouth and sparkle of eye in a mirror.

“I hate to say I am.” Resigned, he knelt to heft the timber off the sawhorse.

“Then I’m so pleased I was able to find you at home.” She climbed down from the surrey. “I wanted to welcome you to our little corner of Montana. I baked a cake for you.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am—”

“Call me Marilyn.” She gazed up at him through long lashes, a coy look, just this side of proper, but her message was clear.

How many more women were going to be stopping by to measure up the new bachelor? He dropped the timber, letting it thud to the ground. “That was mighty kind of you, ma’am, but I’m already stocked up on baked goods.”

“I’m sure your daughter will help you eat it.” Marilyn pranced closer on her dainty slippers, arms extended with a glass cake plate.

Angel food. Lucy’s favorite. It wasn’t as if he could be impolite and send her away. He wasn’t a man who could hurt a woman’s feelings, but he didn’t feel right about taking the cake. Or the delicate plate it was on.

“My daughter and I thank you, ma’am.” He wasn’t about to use her first name. He’d learned long ago that would only encourage a marriage-minded woman.

There was only one thing to do. He heaved another timber onto the sawhorse. “It was kind of you to stop by.” He grabbed his saw and set to work.

He figured Miss Marilyn had a few prying questions for him, and after she’d batted her eyes a few more times and walked with a sway of her curvy hips meaning to give him something to think about, she’d be gone.

But not soon enough.

Gage set his jaw, watched the saw bite into the raw lumber, and cursed. All he wanted was to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?

At the sound of a knock at the door Sarah looked up from her kneading. There, on the other side of the pink mesh screen door, stood little Lucy Gatlin.

Her freckled face was shaded by her sunbonnet and sparkled with a grin as she pressed against the mesh. “Howdy, Sarah. Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m making bread. What are you up to?”

“Nothin’.” Lucy pulled open the screen door and leaned one reed-thin shoulder on the frame. “That looks sticky.”

“That’s why I use flour.” Sarah dug the heel of her hand into the dough ball. What was that look on Lucy’s face? Her eyes were pinched, her mouth pursed tight. “I wager your father buys bread in town.”

“Yep.” Lucy took one step forward, watching intently. “That pie you made was real good. We had big slices after supper last night.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Lucy stalked closer. “I bet your bread is real good.”

“I can bring over a loaf when it’s done cooling.”

“Could you?” Lucy’s dark eyes sparkled like Gage’s, full of something extraordinary.

Sarah couldn’t help being charmed. “You can help yourself to a roll if you’d like.” She nodded toward the wire racks on the other side of the kitchen.

“Gee, thanks!”

Sarah pinched the ends of the rolled dough and popped it into a waiting pan. The last one. The back of her neck ached as she straightened. She’d been bending over the breadboard since dawn, but at least the hardest work of the day was over.

Sarah opened the oven door, ignored the blast of heat and slipped her hand inside to test the temperature. “Do you want a glass of milk to go with that?”

“Nope. Can Ella come play?”

“So that’s why you came to raid my kitchen.” Sarah slipped the half dozen-bread pans into the oven and eased the door shut. “Ella’s in her room—”

Footsteps knelled in the front room as Ella burst into sight. “Can I, Ma? Can I please?”

Breathless, Ella clasped her hands together and pleaded. It had been a long time since there had been anyone Ella’s age to play with.

“Take your sweater.” Sarah tried to keep a firm look so there would be no argument. “And you girls don’t go far.”

“We won’t!”

The screen door slammed shut. Laughing to herself, Sarah watched the girls dash into the yard. Ella tugged on her sweater while Lucy untied Scout from the porch post. The bell-like cheer of their voices rang through the kitchen. What luck that a girl Ella’s age had moved in next door.

“Going to take Mr. Gatlin a loaf of your bread, are you?” Cousin Lark, a young girl of sixteen, swept into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Sarah. It sounds like a wasted effort to me.”

“A kind act is never wasted.” Knowing full well what Lark meant, Sarah swept the caked flour and bits of dough into the garbage bucket. “Would you like to take some fresh rolls to your meeting in town?”

“As if I would bring something homemade.” Lark wrinkled her dainty nose as she lifted her best cloak from the peg at the door. “Although I’m sure your baking leaves a certain impression with a man like Mr. Gatlin.”

Sarah had grown used to her stepcousin’s biting remarks, and she was old enough to know the girl was spoiled and sheltered. Life would teach her differently soon enough. But what truly cut to the quick was the derisive look that said, “poor relation.”

That was a sore point. Sarah felt her face flame and she turned her squared back, grinding her mouth shut and keeping it that way. She could not risk losing her temper and being tossed out of the house, a house Ella still needed.

Sarah’s gaze shot to the window where her little girl was stroking Scout’s silky-looking neck. Ella glowed with happiness, standing beside her new friend, but she remained wan and thin. No amount of food and care seemed to make a difference. Ella’s health was still frail, the doctor had told her. It was likely to remain that way for a while longer.

“Everyone in town will get a chuckle out of your baking for Mr. Gatlin.” Lark shot out the door, apparently delighted to have the last word.

Sarah leaned her forehead against the upper cupboard door and tried not to let the words take root, but how could she help it? Especially when Lark was right.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.