“He’s gone, Noah. Your brother’s gone. He’s left.” Letter to Reader About the Author Title Page Dedication 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 SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Copyright

“He’s gone, Noah. Your brother’s gone. He’s left.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“This.” Abby fumbled in her skirt pocket and took out a balled-up sheet of lined paper. “This!” she cried.

Noah opened the crumpled paper and scanned the few lines on the page. “I’m so sorry, Abby,” he read. “I wish I could have faced up to it, but I just can’t marry you....” The letter was signed simply Jesse.

Noah swore. His brain was spinning. Left her! The stupid, useless son of a bitch had left her. High and dry Alone. Pregnant. With no one to turn to—except him.

“Come on,” he said, leaning down and taking her by the arm. She staggered to her feet “Come inside and let’s talk this over.” Noah cleared his throat “You got any money? Enough to go home?”

“I can’t go home again, I just can’t,” she said, shuddering. “And I quit my job. Who’s going to hire a teacher with a baby on the way? No husband? Maybe...maybe I could start over. somewhere else....” She buried her head in her hands and her shoulders shook.

He glanced at her. “I have one idea,” he said. “You could marry me.”

Dear Reader,

Every baby ought to be welcomed and loved, but certainly every conception isn’t planned—all women know that!

Still, when it happens, expected or unexpected, a woman’s life is never the same again.

Usually the expectant mother has the love and support of a good man. When she doesn’t, she hopes she can count on the love and support of her family. That’s looking on the brightest side. Too often, the single mother is shunned by her community and her family. When she has no man to stand by her, either, where does she turn?

American Abby Steen finds herself in that situation when she moves to Canada, pregnant and alone. Glory rancher Noah Winslow has no plans to marry—ever. But how can he turn his back on a woman in trouble? Especially when it’s his brother who’s responsible for the whole mess?

I hope you enjoy this new story in my MEN OF GLORY series set in Alberta ranch country. I know you’ll recognize some of the townspeople, and the ranch and farm folk, too.

Judith Bowen

P.S. I’d love to hear what you think of Noah and Abby’s story. Drop me a line at P.O. Box 2333, Point Roberts, WA 98281-2333

His Brother’s Bride
Judith Bowen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Paula

An Editor in a Hundred

CHAPTER ONE

Carlisle, Minnesota

November

WHAT IN HEAVEN’S NAME had happened to her friend? She’d gone to the ladies’ room nearly fifteen minutes ago.

Abby played with her empty glass and tried to ignore the curls of cigarette smoke that floated lazily in the overheated air. The atmosphere in the bar was thick with sweat and sawdust and booze and hormones belonging to both sexes. Plus the music. She could hardly hear herself think.

She wasn’t used to this. The one gin and tonic she’d had was making her feel dizzy. That, and the music. As soon as Marguerite returned from the ladies’ she was going to ask if they could leave.

Abby felt thoroughly uncomfortable sitting by herself at a table along the wall. She hoped no one would think she was looking for company. From time to time she glanced around quickly, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. If her father could see her now. If the good folks in Wicoigon. South Dakota, could see her now. Mavis and Perry and the well-meaning Viola Palmerston, the town librarian, the widow who’d had been so helpful to her when Frank died.

Damn. There was a big cowboy at the bar who she swore kept watching her. It gave her the creeps. She didn’t dare look any closer. Besides, without her glasses on, what could she see, anyway? That had been an exercise in vanity, leaving her glasses at the motel room, thinking she looked better without them. Who would care?

“Another one, ma’am?” The waiter paused briefly, his tray loaded with beer glasses, pitchers and a stack of flimsy foil ashtrays.

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, not sure the waiter could hear her in the din. She was getting out of here. If her so-called friend didn’t show in another two. minutes-Abby glanced at her watch—she was leaving without her. Trust Marguerite to go off with someone else, or sit down at another table.

Abby would just take a taxi to the motel. Tomorrow was a busy day for Wicoigon Jersey Farm at the stock show, and she could use the sleep. Her father would never forgive her if she blew this fair. He lived and breathed Wicoigon Jerseys, and if he hadn’t had a bad fall last week, he’d be here at the agricultural exhibition himself, showing the family company’s top young bulls and heifers with Pepper and Will.

But he wasn’t. Abby was in charge on her own. Pepper and Will, both eighteen, her niece and nephew, twins, weren’t around much except to fulfill their duties of mucking out the stalls and feeding the cattle. They were supposed to be her assistants, but Abby did most of the showing and grooming herself.

Not that she minded. She loved cows. She’d grown up with the gentle doe-eyed Jerseys and they were still her favorite breed, although she hadn’t worked on the farm for quite a few years, since before she’d married Frank. The Carlisle exhibition brought cattle of all breeds, both dairy and beef. It was one of the big stock fairs of the year, and Carlisle blue ribbons were valuable additions to any breeder’s showroom wall. Wicoigon Jerseys already had nearly a dozen.

Everything had changed. Frank was dead now, nearly two years ago. And then last year... when her baby daughter had been born dead—

Abby released her empty glass from nerveless fingers. She still couldn’t bear to think of it. People said things happened for a reason. People said you’d get over it. People said it wasn’t as though you’d gotten to know the child.... That was the stupidest of all the things people said. She’d so hoped she’d have the baby at least-something of Frank, to keep with her always. She’d longed for that baby, as she’d longed for nothing else on earth. And then? An accident of birth, they said. Couldn’t be helped.

And now Abby Steen had no one and nothing.

Frank had been killed in a traffic accident when the rig he was driving smashed into another rig on an interstate in Georgia. Her husband of just over three years had been working extra time to supplement her teaching salary, in the hopes that they’d be able to buy a house of their own, now that they had a family on the way. Abby had been three months pregnant when Frank was killed.

How could such terrible things happen to one person? Her mother had told her that everything happens for a purpose. How could that be true? What horrible purpose was there in two gentle, innocent souls like her husband and her infant daughter dying like that? She’d named the baby, over the objections of her doctor and her parents, who’d said it would only make the pain worse. Mary Francesca, for Frank. How could the pain be any worse?

Sometimes Abby didn’t think she had anything to live for anymore. She had nothing to hope for. But she stopped that thought as soon as it hatched, as she’d done so often, out of habit There were her parents, approaching retirement age. They needed her, in their way. And her older sister, Meg. Abby wasn’t especially close to her family, but she’d had to lean on them in the past few years. She’d always be grateful that they’d been there for her.

Still, the grief had withered her soul until she sometimes thought she was more like a dried-up sixty-year-old spinster than a young woman. Just twenty-eight. Her friend Marguerite had had to cajole her even to agree to come out this evening. She’d have preferred to stay in the motel and watch something on television and go to bed early.

Which was what she should have done, obviously. Now she had to haul herself out of this den of iniquity, as her mother probably would have called it. She’d had her gin, she’d lost her friend, and now it was time to get out of there and get some sleep.

“Ma’am?”

The rich baritone at her left shoulder had her spinning. She reached up to push aside the blond lock that had snapped across her nose as she turned. “Yes?”

She sounded almost angry. Schoolmarmish. She hadn’t meant to. Nor had she been in a classroom for quite a while.

“I’d like to buy you a drink, if I may?” It was the cowboy she’d been sure was examining her from across the dance floor, from his position at the bar. He was big, as she’d thought. Tall and handsome and friendly looking.

Of course, what would she know? She hadn’t dated since Frank’s death. She had very little interest in men, although she dreaded the loneliness that seemed to surround her.

This man had a mustache. A thick, luxuriant brown mustache. Otherwise he was neatly shaved and his hair was freshly bartered. He wore standard-issue Western-type clothing, right down to the string tie and plaid shirt, the brand-new Wranglers and fancy belt buckle. He didn’t wear a hat, which she supposed was a departure from the norm.

“Y-yes. I suppose so.” Abby realized how ungracious she must sound. She’d noticed his name tag—Jesse Winslow, Winslow Herefords, Glory, Alberta-pinned to his shirt pocket. He must have forgotten to remove it when he left the show barn. So he was at least associated with the stock exhibition.

He introduced himself, reaching up to tip his nonexistent hat. She supposed it was a habit. She felt self-conscious suddenly when he pulled out the chair Marguerite had occupied. The waiter had already taken her friend’s empty glass away.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“Er, no.” Abby abruptly sat back down in the chair she’d just vacated. Where was Marguerite?

“And you’re—?” The cowboy smiled.

For a moment Abby wondered what he was smiling at, then realized she hadn’t introduced herself.

“Abby Steen.” She reached across the table on impulse and shook his hand. Be normal. Businesslike. His hand was large and warm. Callused. The hand of a working man. “I’m, uh, here with a friend. She’s just, urn, left for a moment—” Abby cast worried eyes in the direction of the ladies’ room. Still no Marguerite. Par for the course.

“Are you here with the stock show?”

“Yes. Wicoigon Jerseys. In South Dakota.”

“Ah. A farmer.” The cowboy smiled again. He had a gorgeous smile, Abby decided despite herself. And he really was a very handsome man. Healthy-looking, virile—she glanced quickly at his hands on the table—and single.

“You could say that. My father’s the farmer, actually. I’m just helping him out this year, showing the stock.”

“Your dad here?”

“No. He had an accident last week and wasn’t able to come. I’m here with a couple of assistants. My niece and nephew.”

“I see.” The cowboy caught the attention of the waiter and ordered another gin for her and a beer for himself. “A family affair,” he finished, with a glance toward her after the waiter left. His eyes were very blue.

“What about you?” Did this qualify as social chitchat?

“I’m here with one helper. My neighbor’s boy. My brother and I raise Herefords up in Alberta. Glory. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the place.”

Abby smiled and shook her head. “Can’t say as I have,” she replied, unconsciously imitating the stranger’s speech patterns.

“We’ve just got a few young bulls in the show this year. Normally my brother comes with me and we drive a couple of stock trucks down, but this fall he decided to stay home.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s an ornery son of a gun. Not much for shows. He prefers the back-home stuff. Cutting hay and pulling calves. Minding the books. Which is just fine by me.” Jesse Winslow smiled again and his eyes crinkled and a pulse bobbled low in Abby’s midriff. She realized with horror that she found him attractive—as a man. This hadn’t happened, this feeling, since she’d first met Frank at a college track meet years ago. Maybe she’d better leave while she was ahead-

“G and T for the lady?” The waiter put down the glasses with a flourish and Abby watched as Jesse paid for the drinks and gave the waiter a sizable tip. Too late, she realized she should have of fered to pay for her own drink. Although he had asked....

“Where’s your friend?” The cowboy raised his beer glass slightly, then took a leisurely draft.

“Oh, heck.” Abby frowned, remembering. “She went to the bathroom and didn’t come back. She probably met someone on the way there and took off.”

Jesse met her annoyed gaze with a look of surprise. “Some friend. She. do that often?”

“That’s Marguerite, I’m afraid.” Abby tried a shaky laugh, as though she was used to people treating her like that. “I’ve known her for years, off and on. Her people farm in southern Minnesota somewhere. Shorthorns. I’ve met her at a lot of the same shows. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh.” The cowboy took another drink of his beer and made a quick survey of the room. Abby followed his glance. The band, almost indistinguishable in the corner behind a haze of smoke, had started up an old-fashioned swing tune, and couples were moving onto the sawdust-covered dance floor.

Abby felt comfortable with the handsome stranger, all of a sudden. Maybe it was the second gin. Maybe it was the realization that he’d known exactly what she meant—regulars on the show circuit met people from year to year at the same events. You became friends with someone you saw for only a day or two, two or three times a year. Friendships were struck quickly when there was no time to waste in preliminaries. It was easy to make a mistake that way, but then a few days later, you pulled out of town and left your mistakes behind you. You had a few months, maybe a year to think things over. Generally, by the time you saw the person again, if there’d been any problems, they were all forgotten.

“Dance?” The cowboy was smiling at her and holding out his hand.

Impulsively, Abby took it. Why not? She hadn’t danced in ages, and the music was catchy.

The floor was crowded by now, and Jesse Winslow held her close. Abby’s head was reeling. She breathed in his masculine scent, so near-leather and sweat and a faint, pleasant manufactured scent of some kind, probably aftershave. His hand on her waist was firm and decisive. He steered her clear of any collisions with the other dancers, a few of whom weren’t all that sober. Her hand in his felt very protected, very safe. He was an excellent dancer.

Trouble was, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Neither could he, it seemed. The silence became heavier and heavier, and Abby’s imagination ran wild. One instant she pictured this man, the man she’d met all of twenty minutes ago, naked, all muscle and brawn and hairy broad chest. Then, horrified, she clamped down on her thoughts and the next thing she knew she imagined him kissing her, unsnapping her bra....

Omigoodness. What kind of lonely, sex-starved creature was she?

“Oh, there you are, Abigail!” Marguerite yelled, as though it were Abby who’d done the deserting. Marguerite was in the arms of a tall, thin blond man wearing an expensive-looking gray Western-cut suit. Abby recognized one of the organizers of the stock show. Marguerite obviously had her eye on the main chance....

“I see you’ve met someone—good! Take your mind off your troubles, hon, just like I told you—” Then, when Marguerite met her again a few seconds later, after the man in the suit had spun her, she continued, “I’ll be going to a party with Stan here-” She winked at Abby. “Maybe you could take a cab to the motel? Or drive my car?”

She was being ditched. Abby nodded, embarrassed, and was glad when Jesse steered her discreetly in a different direction.

“Your friend, I presume?” he said, gazing down at her.

He was so close. Abby caught her breath. “Yes.” She was determined to offer no excuses, either for her choice of friends or for Marguerite’s rude behavior.

“You want to drive her car home?”

“No. I’ll take a cab.” Abby looked up as he held her a little closer. “I don’t like to drive when I’ve been drinking, especially someone else’s car.”

“Drinking!” Jesse laughed. “How many?”

“That’s my second, the one you bought,” Abby replied. What was so funny?

“Your second, eh? Well, you aren’t exactly drunk, Abby Steen.”

“No. But I’m not used to it, either. I feel a little, uh—”

“You okay?” He looked concerned.

“I’m fine. I just feel a little queasy, that’s all.”

They danced one more number, then returned to their table and Abby finished her drink. Her head was foggy. She was more than ready to go back to the motel. She dug in her purse for change, coming up with everything but a quarter. Jesse Winslow watched her for a few moments, then stood and held her chair.

“Here. Let me take you home. I’m about ready to leave, anyway.”

“Heavens, no! I’ll take a cab. Can you give me change for a dollar?” She smiled, feeling extraordinarily foolish.

“Forget it.” He sounded very firm. “I’ll drive you.”

Abby closed her purse and got to her feet. Jesse put his arm casually around her shoulders, to guide her through the dancers, now thickly crowding the dance floor. Abby couldn’t see Marguerite. Oh well, she’d more or less said goodbye already.

The evening was crisp and cold, and Abby pulled her jacket more tightly around her. She took a deep breath, which cleared the smoke from her lungs. Early November in northern Minnesota could be colder than this. At least, there wasn’t any snow on the ground yet.

Jesse led the way to a late-model pickup truck with dual rear wheels, probably the vehicle that had pulled the Winslow stock trailer to Minnesota from Alberta. He handed her into the passenger side, not speaking until he’d climbed into the vehicle and shut the door.

He paused, his hand on the ignition. “Where you staying?”

“The Spruce Valley Inn.”

“That’s the one right near the exhibition grounds?”

“Yes.” The town’s motels and hotels were pretty well full this week with the out-of-towners visiting the stock show. Her niece and nephew were staying with some friends they’d met on previous trips to Carlisle with Abby’s father, their grandfather. Abby wasn’t keen on that situation, as she couldn’t keep an eye on them the way she was sure her sister would want her to, but on the other hand, she was able to get the early nights she preferred.

“I’m just down the street. At the Alta Vista.”

“Oh.” Abby felt like a fool. She was no conversationalist. Why hadn’t she taken a cab? They were strangers, although they’d danced and he’d bought her a drink and she supposed he must be interested in her. They had nothing to say to each other, nothing in common except that they both knew the difference between a Black Angus and a Holstein. They weren’t even in the same area there--he was beef and she was dairy.

He drove to her motel through the empty streets, not more than a five-minute drive. He didn’t say anything. She supposed that was another thing they , had in common-neither of them was much for chitchat. Abby looked out the window. The shops were dark, of course, but so were most of the cafés and restaurants. Even the movie theater was deserted. Not even midnight yet, but it seemed the good folks of Carlisle went to bed with the chickens, as her father said. Abby smiled to herself wryly. A live wire like her would fit right into this kind of town.

Abby had often wondered about the kind of town she’d fit into. She’d grown up in Wicoigon. She’d gone to school there, then lived in Grand Falls during her college years. She’d moved back to Wicoigon to teach elementary school. She and Frank had honeymooned in Hawaii, a big splurge that had taken all their meager savings, but that was about as far as she’d traveled. She’d only been out of state a handful of times besides her honeymoon. Twice to a 4-H meet and once to a friend’s wedding in Nebraska. The occasional stock fair back when she traveled with her father. Sometimes she recalled the days she’d yearned to see the world, meet other people, go to the places she’d read about in books. All that had changed when she married Frank, and then when both Frank and the baby they’d wanted so much passed out of her life. Everything was different now. She’d gone to earth like an injured fox; she’d turned to her family and the town she’d always known. She had nothing else to turn to. Neither arrangement was perfect, but then life so rarely was.

They were at her motel. She’d have to say something....

She had her hand on the door of the truck. “Well, thanks—”

“Wait a minute. You going to be all right?”

“Me?” Abby was slightly bewildered.

“Yeah. You said you weren’t used to drinking.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, laughing weakly. “I’m not drunk, you know.”

“I’ll walk you to your room. Make sure you get in all right. Stay there.” He came around and opened the truck door for her and she scrambled out, in a fairly unladylike manner, she was sure.

He took her arm as they walked toward her door on the lower level, number 101. The sidewalk was frosty, and she was grateful for the support as the leather soles of her shoes slid a little.

“I’m fine now,” she said nervously. Did he expect a good-night kiss? What did a person a woman—do in a situation like this? Abby glanced toward the well-lighted front office of the inn. At least there were plenty of people around.

“Your friend, the one who never came back for you, she said you needed to take your mind off something. Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do? Any way I can help?”

This Canadian cowboy, this stranger, seemed genuinely concerned.

Abby stared at him, his eyes looking black under the artificial light of the streetlamp, and to her horror, she felt hot tears running down her cheeks. Something crumpled beneath her breastbone, something she’d clung to like life itself for nearly two years.

“Not unless you can undo the hand of God,” she whispered rawly. “Can you? My little girl was born dead. My husband died two years ago, before our baby was born,” she rasped, barely recognizing her voice. “That’s what Marguerite was talking about when—” Her voice ran out. It just stopped.

Abby swiped at her wet cheeks, suddenly angry that. this man had mentioned the one subject that belonged to her alone. She tried to jam the key into the lock.

“Oh, damn. Honey, I’m so sorry-” She felt his hand on her shoulder. He sounded shocked. “I had no idea-I’d never have mentioned it if I had. I thought it was some problem with your stock—”

Abby actually managed a strangled laugh. She jabbed at the lock again—damn this stupid key!—and then Jesse took it from her and unlocked the door himself. The door swung open, the room faintly redolent of air freshener and travelers’ shoes and damp carpet. If only it was a problem with the damn cows. If only it was something like a missing show halter or a lame foot or a digestive problem one of the heifers was having. Dysentery. Heaves. Hoof-and-mouth. Brucellosis. Mad cow disease. She felt hysteria rise within her. The quicker she could get rid of this cowboy, the better.

But he was right behind her. “You sit down, Abby,” he said, flicking on the lights and shutting the door. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Abby sat heavily on the bed, dropping her handbag to the floor. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She stared at the unfamiliar sight of the tall, handsome stranger, bustling about her motel room, ripping open the package of complimentary coffee, dumping it into the filter, filling the reservoir with water, turning on the miniature coffee machine, then assembling two mugs by fitting cone-shaped plastic inserts into the plastic receptacles provided. Disposable. Discardable. Sterile.

A dam burst in Abby. She sobbed, bolt upright on the bed, her hands in front of her face. She felt the bed sag as Jesse sat down beside her. She felt him put his arm around her, heard the helpless mutterings of manly comfort as he tried to calm her. What a situation for him to be in!

“Please go,” she said, pushing him away. “Please leave me alone. There’s nothing you can do. It’s over, it’s past. There’s nothing anyone can do—”

“I’ll leave. But I want to see you settle down a little first. Drink some coffee. Here, just get it all out, honey.” He put both arms forcibly around her and suddenly Abby collapsed into them. It felt good to lean on someone. Finally. She laid her cheek against his shirt and wept He stroked her hair awkwardly and kept muttering to her.

The relief. The terrible loneliness of weeping by herself... She was not alone now. She was with a strong, handsome stranger. A stranger who, oddly, cared what was happening to her. Of course, anyone would be flummoxed to have a woman collapse on him, the way she had....

“Look, honey. Let me get up and get you a cof fee. I think it’s ready.”

Abby sat upright again, stiff as starch, shocked at how she’d welcomed his arms around her. Briefly. She watched as he poured two cups—“Cream—this whitener stuff? Sugar?”

She nodded. “Cream.” She blew her nose loudly on the tissue she’d taken out of her handbag.

He stirred the coffee and brought it to her. He handed her one cup, then sat in an armchair beside the bed and carefully pulled the small bedside table toward her so they could share it. She set her cup down, too.

She tried to smile. “Thank you.”

“Hell.” He looked ill at ease. He took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Whew!”

She laughed. “That bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

They sat in silence again, as though the emotional storm of the past ten minutes hadn’t happened. Abby realized he wasn’t comfortable discussing it. She realized that, like so many men, he’d just as soon stick to the present, to the action possible in any situation. The coffee. The news. She thought she’d seen him glance longingly at the silent television in the corner. No way she was turning it on; he wasn’t a guest. He’d be on his way the instant he finished his coffee. She was fine now. She’d be okay. She didn’t know what had come over her.

Anyway. It was done. It was past. She felt a little better now.

Suddenly Jesse put his cup down and stood. “I’d, uh, I’d better be on my way now.”

Abby got up, too. She was only a short distance from him. She had to look up to meet his gaze. “I—I want to thank you—” she began.

He stepped forward and put his arms gently around her. He pushed back a strand of hair that stuck damply to the side of her cheek. His eyes didn’t meet hers. He seemed to be studying her, as though committing her features to memory. “You’re a fine woman, Abby Steen. A fine beautiful woman.” His voice was rich and deep.

“Oh—”

“Listen to me. It’ll come out all right in the end. Believe me. I know you’ve heard that kind of thing before, but it’s true. You’ll, uh-” He met her gaze then and stared at her for a second or two. It seemed like a very long time to Abby’s overstretched nerves. “Troubles are bad but uh, you’ll—” he began again. He stopped and swallowed.

“Oh, damn,” he whispered, then leaned down and brought his mouth to hers and Abby took a long, deep, shaky breath and kissed him back. It felt good, it felt right. It had been so very long since she’d had a man’s arms around her, pressing her against him, as though imprinting every curve of her body on his, as though he ached for her as she ached for him. For someone.

He kissed her deeply, and she felt the vibrations of what was happening right down to her calves, along her thighs, the inside of her thighs, her breasts.... She clung to him, eager to meet his kisses, to taste all of him.

Then she felt his fingers, strong and expert, on the hook of her bra, through her blouse, pinching, succeeding... yes, she exulted silently as she felt her bra loosen and her breasts spring free. Just as I dreamed, just as I imagined...

Just as I so desperately need to wipe the pain away. For a few hours. A night, a day. Maybe forever.

“Don’t leave me,” she heard herself whisper. “Stay with me. Please.”

CHAPTER TWO

Glory, Alberta

March

THE LAYOUT OF THE Lazy SB, home of Winslow Herefords, was a little unusual. You approached the ranch by following a long grade that led from the flat of the prairies, smack against the sky, to the broad valley of the Horsethief River.

Once at the end of the short graveled lane that led from the secondary highway, you came upon a fairly new, white-sided prefab building of modest size, perhaps twelve hundred square feet. That was where Jesse Winslow lived. To the south, a little up the hill from the river, was a trailer, an older model measuring less than thirty feet. That was where the Winslows’ uncle, Brandis McAffrey, had lived until he died three years before at the age of eighty-four, dividing his share of the ranch between his two nephews. The trailer had been empty since then.

A little higher again, on a gentle knoll, was the old Winslow family home. It was built of clapboard, somewhat weathered now, and stood two stories, square and proud, on the knoll overlooking the ranch corrals and barns and the Horsethief River in the middle distance. A fancy-cut veranda, the style of a previous time, wrapped itself around the house, and old-fashioned deep pink roses, long gone wild, small of bloom and long of thorn, climbed up to the roof on two sides. That was where Noah Winslow lived.

The brothers got along fine; they just preferred to live separately. The arrangement suited them. There’d been a third brother, Casey, but he’d died at the age of twelve of a ruptured appendix. Doc Lake had seen to him when Jake Winslow had rushed him to town, after pooh-poohing the severity of the boy’s “bellyache,” but it was too late. Casey had died four days later of the massive infection that had set in, and the loss of her middle son had hastened Macy Winslow’s decline. She’d suffered for many years from a sort of mysterious palsy that incapacitated her. No one knew exactly what it was, but one day, about two months after Casey’s death, Macy had gone down for a nap in the afternoon of a bright spring day and had never woken up.

The neighbors had talked. It was a small community, Glory and the surrounding farm and ranch district. People had wondered at the sudden death of a woman in midlife who only trembled a bit, enough that she couldn’t hold a teacup steady. There were whispers of suicide—not just because of Macy’s losing a son like that but having to live with a man like Jake Winslow. A hard man. Some said a violent an.

But the doctor’s certificate had read “unknown natural causes” and that was good enough, as far as the remaining Winslows were concerned. She’d been buried in the churchyard up on the prairie, a church that only she of all the Winslows had ever attended. There was singing at the grave site and purple martins looped overhead as Macy McAffrey Winslow was lowered into the rich brown prairie soil. It was the only time, outside of his wedding, that Jake Winslow had ever been seen at church. Six months later, he’d sold his interest in the ranch to his brother-in-law, Brandis McAffrey, Macy’s half brother, and had disappeared. No one knew if he was dead or alive.

Since then Noah and Jesse and their Uncle Brandis-until his death-had been running the Lazy SB. Neither Noah nor Jesse ever talked about the disappearance of their father. Not many people in the area believed he was missed, even by his two boys.

Neither had married. Nor had Uncle Brandis ever married. Noah was close to his mid-thirties and Jesse was twenty-seven. If Casey had lived, he’d be thirty-one.

SPRING HAD COMB early to the northern range this year. By late March, the snow had cleared or blown away and most of the newborn calves had a pleasant and peaceful introduction to the world on the Lazy SB. No blizzards. No sudden March northwesters bringing freezing rain. No deep winter snow on the ground to weary the lumbering mothers. Noah and Jesse had ridden the range all month, watching for cows with problems. There’d been a few, but this year they’d lost fewer calves than ever before. Noah was pleased. A dead calf was money lost on a working ranch. Not just the loss of what the calf would have brought, as a feeder or a finished steer, but money lost in feeding the mother for a year without a calf to show for it. Ranch economics were tough and tight.

By the third week in March, Noah figured most of the calving was done. The few cows that hadn’t given birth yet were down in the lower field, close to the ranch so that either he or Jesse or Carl Divine, their foreman, could go out and check on them occasionally.

Other ranching and farming tasks were approaching. Seed to get in from Regina for the hay crops he was experimenting with this year. Bulls to examine for health problems and get into condition before turning them out with the cows in July. Roundup to organize, maybe mid-May this year, depending on the weather. Branding to follow, along with inoculating, castrating, dehorning, worming and all the other hundred and one jobs a rancher had to keep up with to look after his cattle properly.

The weather so far was just about perfect. You couldn’t ask for a finer spring day. As Noah left Carl in the barn checking veterinary supplies and walked up to the house to get some lunch, he noticed his brother turning into the yard. Jesse didn’t stop at his own bungalow, but continued on up Noah’s driveway.

Noah waved briefly, then walked into the house to start the coffee machine, which he usually got ready before he left the house in the morning. He opened the refrigerator. Bologna or ham or leftover roast beef? He pulled out the sliced ham and began to gather the makings of the rest of his sandwich. Maybe make extra, in case Jesse hadn’t eaten.

Lettuce, pickles, mustard, mayonnaise, cheese slices, a few chunks of raw onion, a tomato slice or two, more pickles—the entire creation topped with a couple of peperoncini peppers and a dab of horseradish. Now that was a sandwich, Noah thought with satisfaction.

Jesse came in without knocking and sat heavily at the kitchen table.

Noah glanced at his brother. “You eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Sandwich? Carl’s down at the barn.”

“Sure.” Jesse sighed and Noah spared him another glance before topping the three sandwiches he’d made with a thick slice of Glory Bakery bread. He leaned down on each sandwich gently, just enough to make it all stick together and not topple off before he could wrap one up for Carl and take the other two to the table for him and Jesse. He’d planned to eat down at the barn with his foreman, but now that Jesse was here, he might as well stay up at the house and eat with him.

He set the plate on the table, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of magazines and newspapers. His brother hadn’t even taken off his hat, which was unusual. He hadn’t said another word, either. Noah walked back to the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of cans of beer. He popped the tab on his as he returned to the table.

“Beer?”

“I could use one,” Jesse said, reaching for his can and popping the tab, too. “Thanks.” He took a long draft and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. Noah noticed a letter sticking out of the pocket of his brother’s shirt. The letter had been opened.

The two men ate their sandwiches in silence for five minutes. Then Noah decided to cut to the chase. “I thought you weren’t coming home from town until later this afternoon. That barbed wire the coop ordered come in early?”

He knew Jesse didn’t have the barbed wire, the pickup hadn’t ridden as though it had a load in the back. Still, no way was he coming straight out and asking—that wasn’t how the men in his world did things. Not men who loved cowboying and the independent life above all, men like him and Jesse. A man was generally his own boss, whether he worked for wages or not. A man worth his grub and his paycheck knew what needed doing without being told.

“Nope.” Jesse drained his beer. “Didn’t get it yet. I, ah, I had some news in town.”

Noah regarded him for a second or two. “News?” He bit into his sandwich.

“Got a letter today.” Jesse patted his chest pocket and frowned.

“Girlfriend?”

“This is no joke, Noah.” Jesse swore softly under his breath. “No joke at all.”

“Well, you’d better tell me then. Save me guessing. I got work to do this afternoon.”

His brother heaved another sigh and stood up to retrieve the pickle jar from the fridge. “You recall that exhibition I went to last fall in Minnesota? Me ‘n’ Barney?” he asked as he stabbed into the jar with a fork.

“Sure do. Got two blue ribbons for those young bulls sired by Mack. Grand champ and reserve.” Mack was the pet name Noah had for Macintosh Millicent Merrigoldas Blazes, the top bull on the ranch, the five-year-old Noah would have mortgaged his soul to acquire. He hadn’t had to, luckily, and Mack had turned out even better than he’d dreamed. Blood will out, old Brandis used to say. Blood and breeding.

“Well, I met a woman down there.” Jesse screwed the lid back on the pickle jar and pushed it to the center of the table.

Noah stared at his brother. He looked unhappy. This wasn’t like Jesse. Was he in love? Women were nothing new to him; he had women falling all over him wherever he went.

“And?” Noah took another bite of his sandwich and chased the heat from the peppers with the last of his beer.

Jesse patted his pocket again. “She wrote. Told me, uh—jeez, Noah, I don’t know how to put this,” Jesse said in a rush. His eyes were hangdog. This was the younger brother Noah had pulled out of quite a few jams over the years. He knew the look well.

“Hell, Jess. How bad could it be? You catch something you weren’t figuring on catching? You left her with something she wasn’t figuring on getting left with-”

“Yeah. She’s having a baby. Mine—”

“What?”

“She’s having a kid. She don’t want nothing from me. Just figured I should know, that’s all.”

“What do you mean, she doesn’t want anything from you?” He surprised himself with the intensity of his feelings. This was bound to happen. Jesse was a womanizer. Noah was amazed it hadn’t happened long ago. Maybe it had. “What did she write for if she didn’t want anything?”

“You’re a hard son of a bitch, Noah.” Jesse stood up. “Some folk are decent, you know.” He glared at his brother. “Some people got feelings. Some folk figure there’s a right and a wrong way to do things.”

For a minute Noah thought Jesse was going to leave. But he didn’t. He stood at the kitchen window for a few seconds, staring out over the rivet valley, then sat down again.

“I’ve thought it over. I’m going to write back and see if she wants to get married.”

Noah didn’t say a thing. He just studied his younger brother. Then-he wasn’t sure why he said it—“Who would she marry?”

“Me, you bastard. Me!” Jesse glared at him. “I know how to do right by a woman. You’re not the only Winslow knows about honor, damn it”

Ha. Honor. What the hell was Jesse talking about? Honor was one thing the Winslows weren’t big on, none of ’em. Practical, that was what the Winslows were. Some might say too practical. Noah walked to the fridge and grabbed two more beers. This called for a little celebration.

“What’s her name?”

“Abby. Abby Steen.”

“Married? Separated? Divorced?” Noah plunked the beer in front of his brother and stood there, popping the tab on his own.

Jesse glared again and Noah saw him bite back a curse. “Widow.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know. Twenty-two, twenty-three, maybe.” Jesse sounded irritable. He grabbed the second beer. “Looks pretty young.”

“When’s the happy day?”

“The wedding, you mean?”

“Well, I don’t mean the kid. I can figure that out, seeing you were in Minnesota for a week in November. You never heard of rubbers?” he added angrily. “What in hell happened?”

Jesse tossed his hat onto the chair beside him and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair.

“Wedding?” Jesse said, answering his first question. “As soon as she can come up here, I guess. That’s if she’ll marry me—”

“Oh, she’ll marry you, all right—”

“What happened? Hell!” Jesse disregarded his interruption and ran his hand through his hair again, and when he spoke he addressed the floor in front of him. None too clean, Noah noted absently. Still, he’d seen it worse.

“I met her in a bar—now, don’t you say nothing! I wasn’t drinking, not that much anyway. Couple beers. I noticed her sitting by herself. She had a friend with her, turned out the friend had plans to go off with somebody else. So I drove her home.”

“So you drove her home, uh-huh,” Noah muttered.

“Yeah. When we got there, I asked her if she needed a hand, if she had some kind of trouble, since the friend had mentioned it. I figured it might be to do with her stock, and she just—hell, she just cracked up on me. Started bawling. Told me her husband had been killed not that long ago, and the baby she’d been expectin’ had been born dead—”

“And you bought all that.”

“Of course I bought it! It was the truth, damn it. Anybody could see that. I told her I’d make her some coffee and I did. We had a cup or two, then—well, then we ended up in bed. It was just, you know—one of those things.”

Noah nodded. For guys like Jesse, sure, it was one of those things. Noah couldn’t quite imagine himself in that kind of situation.

“We, uh, we spent the rest of the weekend together. The nights anyway. She was lonely. So was I, I guess. I sure in hell didn’t think this would happen. We used birth control—”

“Mostly.”

“Yeah, mostly,” Jesse shot back. “Accidents happen.”

“To guys like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Huh? Guys like me? Not perfect guys like you, eh?” Jesse leaped to his feet and for a second or two, Noah thought he was going to take a poke at him. That’d be great, a couple of Winslows duking it out over a woman. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.

“Settle down, Jesse,” Noah said wearily. He frowned. He couldn’t waste much more time on this. He had to go down and give Carl a hand and phone in the order to the vet’s. What was done was done. “Okay, so she can come up here, you can get the papers in order, whatever. What about her being American?”

“I already checked in town. She can come up to marry me. Get her papers that way.”

“I suppose she could stay in Brandis’s trailer.”

“Why the trailer? She could stay with me.”

“Do I have to spell it out, Jesse? Neighbors are going to talk as it is, her showing up like this out of nowhere. Don’t give them any more ammo than they’re already going to have once that kid comes. People can count backward, y’know.”

Jesse reached for his hat and jammed it on. He looked like hell. This had been a shock to him, no question. There went his carefree bachelor days, following his happy hormones wherever they led. Noah could see he hadn’t had time to take it all in yet. Marriage, a wife, a kid on the way...

“Listen, buddy.” Noah clapped his brother on the shoulder as he accompanied him to the door. “Things could be worse. Huh?”

Jesse nodded sheepishly. “Guess so.”

“Time you settled down, anyway. One of us.” Noah smiled. “Keep the Winslows going, huh?”

Jesse grinned. “Yeah, sure.”

“Better you than me, right?”

Jesse shrugged. He didn’t say anything.

“She a cowgirl? Know one end of a horse from the other?”

“Farm family. Teacher by trade.”

“Teacher? That’s good. What kind of farming? Sugar beets?” Noah wasn’t serious. He was trying for a lighter note with his brother, although it was an effort.

“Dairy. Jerseys or Guernseys or some damn thing.”

“That’s good. Cows is cows, I guess, even if they ain’t whitefaces, right?”

The two brothers shared a laugh. It was an old family joke that had originated with Brandis. Jesse stepped out the door and the screen slapped shut behind him.

“Jess?” His brother turned to meet Noah’s gaze. “You can count on me. You know that.”

“I know that, man. I appreciate it.” Jesse’s voice was gruff, reflecting the emotion behind his words. Jesse had always leaned on his big brother. It was natural that he’d come to him today. For advice, for comfort.

“Okay.”

Noah watched Jesse walk back to his pickup and open the door. “Hey!” he called out.

His brother paused, one foot on the running board. “Yeah?”

“She win anything at the fair?”

“Hell if I know,” Jesse said with a wide grin. “I never asked.” He climbed in and slammed the door.

You wouldn’t, Noah thought, watching him back the truck up to the Y in the road. Still, Jesse was a decent man. Solid, good instincts. Hard worker. Fairly steady. Spent too much money, in Noah’s opinion, and there’d been a time he drank too much. That was past. Definitely a good idea for him to settle down. Maybe this widow, coming to Glory with a family already started, was the woman to do it.

No question, things could be worse.

ABBY HUNG HER HEAD over the toilet bowl and wearily mopped her face with a cool, wrung-out washcloth. The doctor had said he suspected twins. She prayed he was wrong, but they ran in the family. She hadn’t been sick at all with her first pregnancy and now this—nearly every morning for the past month she’d gotten up sick.

She’d have to tell her parents soon. She wasn’t afraid to; after all, she was a grown woman, a widow, who’d suffered more in her twenty-eight years than any woman should be asked to suffer. But they’d be upset. And terribly disappointed. And they’d want to know if she was going to get married again, to the father of the baby. And they’d worry about the neighbors talking. Which they’d definitely do in a small town like Wicoigon.

She was living with her parents and working part-time for her father and part-time as a substitute teacher since the new term had started after Christmas. She’d grown to dread the call in the morning telling her that her services were required in the classroom that day. She taught elementary, grade three mostly. She couldn’t forget that her own baby would have been a year old now. Being surrounded by children all day long was like walking on cut glass, Abby had discovered. The constant reminders of the child she’d lost, plus the extra stresses of her pregnancy, physical and emotional, were really getting her down.

It didn’t help that she’d begun to find the smell of cows and barns nauseating. Thank heavens she’d convinced her father to let her do his books in preparation for year-end, so she was in his office in the house most of the time. This nausea would pass, and when it did, she’d be finished the accounts and ready to go back and help him with the cattle.

She’d confided in only one person so far, her sister, Meg. Meg had been horrified. Still was. Meg was fourteen years older than Abby, and they’d been more like aunt and niece than sisters. Meg wanted to know right away who the father was, and when Abby told her she’d had a brief liaison with a stranger from Canada during the Carlisle fair, her sister’s lovely face had grown stiff with disapproval. Like their parents, Meg was a regular churchgoer. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Abby often wished her own faith would come easier to her—but she really didn’t think that her parents or Meg ever thought much beyond the surface.

Shouldn’t her sister be thrilled for her, knowing how little joy she had in her life? Knowing that her only child, Frank’s baby, had been snatched from her, born dead? Didn’t she realize that Abby welcomed this new life growing inside her womb—that this was heaven’s gift to her for all her suffering?

She’d never do anything to jeopardize that life. That was why she’d written to Jesse Winslow. She wanted nothing from him, but she believed he had a right to know. A child had a right to a father and a father had a right to his child. She was going to have this baby and raise it with all the love she had in her heart, and her child was not going to be fatherless. If Jesse was at all inclined, he could see their child whenever he wanted. If he wasn’t, well, so be it. She had given him the choice.

And then she’d received the letter from him, asking her to come to Glory and marry him. That was a shocker. They didn’t really know each other. He seemed to be a very nice man. Quiet, gentle. She’d found him attractive, yes, for a few days—but could she live with the man? Marry him?

Hardly.

She’d received the letter two weeks ago. Jesse had said he’d wait until he heard from her, as he didn’t know her circumstances and he hadn’t wanted to call her right out of the blue. But he’d give her some time to think it over. He hoped she’d agree. If so, he’d send her fare right away, and they could get married as soon as she wanted.

Well, she didn’t need the fare. Although it was kind of him to offer. She had a few savings. She’d need to work to support her baby and the likeliest prospect was to look for a job teaching full-time. But who was going to hire a pregnant teacher with no seniority? Or a teacher with a brand-new infant—or infants—which would be the case since her due date was August? Even if, according to the law, it wasn’t supposed to matter. And then there was the fascinating particular of the new teacher with a brand-new baby but no husband. How would that go over with the hiring committee?

And did she want someone else to raise her child? A caregiver? Put the baby straight into day care? What if the doctor’s suspicions were right and she was carrying twins?

Abby shuddered at the prospect of the difficulties ahead of her. If her baby had survived, she’d planned to live off Frank’s insurance settlement for the first year or two. Day care was inevitable eventually, no matter how much she’d have preferred to be home raising her own child, as she would have done if Frank had lived.

“Yoo-hoo!” It was her mother, downstairs.

“Yes?” Abby called through the closed door. That was another thing; there was so little privacy. It wasn’t her parents’ fault, but she couldn’t help thinking they’d resented losing their own space when their younger daughter had moved back in to save money.

“Breakfast’s on! Time’s a-wastin’ Abigail!”

Time’s a-wasting. Yes, wasn’t it? Abby thought wearily. She was more than four months gone already. The morning sickness should have passed. She’d be showing soon. She stood, wiped her forehead again, then took several deep breaths. She examined her face in the spotty bathroom mirror over the sink. Long blond hair, average features. Blue eyes. A pleasant smile, people said. Looked like a lot of the Swedish, Dutch, German, Norwegian folks in the district. She looked better when she was pregnant. no matter what she felt. People commented on that She remembered before, with the baby she always called Mary Frannie in her heart, that she’d felt so happy being pregnant with Frank’s child, happy despite the grief of losing Frank. As though having a baby was something she’d always wanted. Although she hadn’t really. She’d never thought much about it. It had just happened.

Now, this time, it had just happened again. She must be fecund as a darn bunny rabbit, she thought wryly.

Time’s a-wasting. Abby made her way slowly down the stairs.

“—and I told Belle she’d have to step in and do something. Send that girl packing. It’s not right to—oh, there you are!” Her mother smiled as she spotted Abby and waved her spatula in greeting. She was busy turning pancakes at the kitchen stove. Her father sat hunched in his chair, as always, listening to the early-morning stock prices on the country station the radio on top of the fridge was tuned to—had been tuned to for thirty years, as far as Abby knew.

“I was just telling your father about the Stovik girl, Abby. Sandra. She’s got herself in the family way and her mother’s just sick about it. I don’t suppose Belle’s aware how much people’ve already been talking. Everybody knows Sandra’s been the town bike for years. There’s probably not a fit man outside of my Arnie here hasn’t taken a ride—”

“Mother!

“It’s true. She’s a tramp, Abby. T-R-A-M-P. Tramp. And now she’s caught in her own sinning ways. Serves her right. She’s expecting, and it’s just going to kill Gladys Volstadt when she finds out her first great-grandchild will be a bastard. Well, how else can you put it? Gladys planned to give Sandra the family silver, I know that for a fact, but a common slut won’t be getting the Volstadt silver, that’s for sure. Gladys wouldn’t stand for it.” Abby’s mother turned the pancakes violently.

“She’ll just have to take her medicine, maybe even get rid of it, although that’s piling sin on sin. Didn’t I always tell Belle she had to watch that one, that Sandra, didn’t I—”

Abby stood, horrified, as she listened to her mother’s litany of condemnation. Suddenly she felt weak. Woozy. She grabbed the doorframe to support herself momentarily—

“Abigail, dear! Something wrong?” Her mother’s voice was sharp. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m just fine.” Abby walked carefully into the kitchen and sank down on a kitchen chair.

“I—uh, Mom? Dad?”

“Huh?” Her father looked up, annoyed, from the careful paring of his thumbnail with his jackknife as he listened to the stock prices on the radio. “What’s that, Ab?”

“What is it, Abigail, for heaven’s sake—”

“I have something I’d like to tell you both. I’ll be leaving. I’ve decided to get married again.”

CHAPTER THREE

IT WOULD HAVE MADE more sense to fly. A thousand miles on a Greyhound bus? Nearly five months pregnant...?

But she’d wanted to see the country. She’d wanted to see the geography change over the course of the two-day trip, from the farming country where she’d been born and raised, through the badlands, into North Dakota, more farming country, mixed forest, wide shallow rivers that fed into the Missouri and the Mississippi and the Great Lakes and then the long, lonely miles to Rugby, North Dakota, which they went through at night. Abby could barely make out the marker in the center of town, but she knew the words on the brass plate: Rugby, N.D., Geographical Center of North America.

From there it was north to the border crossing into Canada at Portal, Manitoba, through the Turtle Mountain country, past Melitta and Brandon and into the gray, windy city of Winnipeg, still leafless in mid-April, its broad streets dusty and littered with grime and debris left behind when the snow melted.

There, in the busy downtown station, she transferred to a Greyhound heading west after a delay of a few hours. She spent the time walking up and down the unfamiliar streets. She sent postcards home to her family, buying the stamps in a drugstore, and bought a paperback novel to read in case she got bored on the long trip west.

Regina. Calgary. Vancouver. The bus was bound for the Pacific Coast. They passed through town after town with unfamiliar names. But except for the occasional rest stop and lunch break, during which Abby got out to stretch her legs, coat drawn close against the chill of the wind, Abby kept her nose pressed to the glass. The paperback novel remained in her bag.

There were so many miles between her old home and her new home. When she allowed herself to think about the life she was entering, she felt her hands grow clammy and her heart pound. Marrying a man she barely knew! She had to be crazy. A man she’d only slept with, and just two nights at that. A man, truth to tell, she wasn’t sure she could even pick out of a crowd. At the same time, she was thrilled to her bones. She’d never done anything so impulsive. Not even marrying Frank six months after they’d met.

Jesse had been surprised when she’d called, the evening after she’d spoken to her parents. He’d looked forward to her call, he’d said, and his voice quickly became reassuring. She could tell he hadn’t really looked forward to it. But he’d seemed pleased, perhaps even relieved, when she told him she’d decided to take him up on his offer, after all, if he was still willing. She gave him no reasons; he didn’t ask for any.

Her mind was made up. After the conversation with her parents, there was no going back. She’d made it clear that she was pleased about her sudden pregnancy and that she was happy to be marrying the father of her baby. She made it sound almost as though that had been her plan all along. When they protested, saying Frank had only been dead two years, Abby had hesitated, struck deeply by the ongoing sadness she carried with her since her young husband’s death. It was true; she missed Frank horribly. She’d never slept with another man, just him and Jesse Winslow.

But she lied; she told her parents it was time for her to move on. That Frank was dead, and there was no bringing him back. That time healed all wounds of the heart—wasn’t that what they’d told her?—and hers had healed, too. That she wasn’t getting any younger and her hopes of marrying again and having children were slight at best if she stayed in Wicoigon. Now, with this chance pregnancy, her decision had more or less been made for her.

She’d handed in her notice to the school board, sold many of the possessions she’d stored at her sister’s place, including most of the baby clothes she’d bought for her first baby, which broke her heart. She kept a few tiny sleepers and one special blanket, wanting, somehow, to maintain a connection between her babies, no matter how tenuous. Thank heavens the doctor had thought there was only one baby on the way, after all, at her last visit. He’d told her to see a doctor, though, and have an ultrasound as soon as she got to Canada. Until she had the ultrasound, she wouldn’t know for sure.

Then she’d cleaned out her savings accounts and bought her bus ticket. One way.

She’d turned down Jesse’s offer to send plane fare. She was a full partner going into this marriage, not some little bit of a thing who needed rescuing from illegitimate pregnancy. She’d meant it when she’d said she was prepared to raise their child alone. That she’d only contacted him because she thought he had a right to know, as any man would.

She still had that option, she supposed, if it didn’t work out with Jesse. She had her teacher training. She had some savings. No matter how she tried to replay matters in her head now that she’d left her home behind, she knew she’d burned most of her bridges in Wicoigon when she’d blurted out to her parents that, like the Stovik girl, she, too, was single and expecting. Worse, in the eyes of the town—she was a pregnant widow. And she hadn’t hidden the fact that the man who’d fathered her child was a man she barely knew, a fellow exhibitor she’d met at the Carlisle Stock Show. Abby hadn’t regretted telling them; they’d know soon enough, anyway, and it wasn’t fair leaving her sister with the burden of the entire story.

Her parents had been horrified. She sensed their relief when she said she’d be moving to Canada, thousands of miles away. That had hurt, really hurt. Abby knew it would be a long time before she could go home again.

HER BUS CAME IN to the Calgary depot at seven o’clock. He knew, not because Jesse had told him, but because he’d called to find out himself. The hour and a half from seven to half past eight was the longest Noah had ever sat through. If her bus was on time, if they hadn’t stopped anywhere, they should be driving up to the ranch any minute now.

He didn’t know why he felt the way he did about Jesse’s marriage to this unknown American from South Dakota. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It wasn’t that he was worried, or checking up on his brother, exactly, when he’d called the bus station. Jesse had appeared at his door just before he’d left for Calgary, all freshly showered and shaved, wearing a new shirt.

“Wish me luck,” he’d said. He looked like a man in love. Almost.

Noah didn’t fool himself that Jesse was in love. Jesse was an impulsive, warmhearted, generous man, and no doubt he’d be in love soon enough. Noah cherished no romantic notions about women himself. One was quite a lot like another, as far as he was concerned. If a woman was healthy and clean and moderately pretty, had a sense of humor... well, if you had to, you could probably talk yourself into calling it love.

If Jesse could only bend his mind around being tied down and a family man. That was the key. Maybe that was the part Noah was having such a hard time with—it just wasn’t like his brother to embrace responsibility quite so enthusiastically.

Of course, he hadn’t met this Abby Steen. Maybe she was the type any man would welcome, pregnant or not. Maybe she was an incredibly sexy, energetic, passionate, unrestrained woman any man would be happy to have in his bed, any time.

Plus, he thought idly, a good cook.

Noah reflected. Did he know anyone like that? Nope. He sighed, and cracked the top on his can of beer, his second. He was sitting on the darkened veranda and just about to go in because the mosquitoes had finally found him when he saw the lights of Jesse’s pickup coming slowly down the long grade that led to the ranch. He glanced at his watch. Nearly nine. His collie dog jumped up and barked twice, as she always did when she heard Jesse’s truck. Jesse’s stray howled in the distance. This was the wild dog his brother had found a year before at the side of the highway, injured, and had befriended and half-tamed. No one else on the ranch could get near it. Champ, Jesse called the animal, although he and Carl never called it anything but Jesse’s stray.

That settled it. His brother was back, presumably with the fiancée.

Where did that put Noah? He wasn’t sure. He raised his beer and took his feet down from the railing where he’d been resting them, sitting tipped back on the old rocker. His boots made a solid thump on the wooden deck of the veranda. He could hardly saunter on down and introduce himself to the happy pair this evening.

He’d better leave it until Jesse brought her over, maybe tomorrow. Should he do anything in particular for the new couple? Social-wise? Invite a few neighbors? Barbecue? Too early for that; the bugs would kill them. He’d have to get the house cleaned up, which was a drag. Noah was no social animal; the thought of a party, dinner or otherwise, paralyzed him. Maybe he could ask someone else to handle it for him. Who? Donna Beaton? He’d dated her a while back but they’d split amicably months ago. Donna would do it, though, if he asked her. It was the kind of thing Donna was good at.

But he’d sure hate for any notion to get out that he and Donna were an item again. Because they weren’t. He’d backed off with Donna when he realized there was no future to their relationship. Not that either of them wanted any future together, nor did he want a long-term relationship without marriage. First thing you knew, a fellow could end up with all the obligations and none of the perks. He didn’t want to be married, though. Still, at his age—he was pushing thirty-five—it was getting to be a real nuisance wining and dining a lady as a preliminary to getting into her bed once in a while. Then, if the lady was the sensitive type, there was all that trouble extricating yourself from a relationship you knew was a dead end without hurting her feelings.

Damn. Noah sighed again. Maybe Jesse had it figured out, after all. Sow plenty of wild oats, then settle down and start harvesting some of the crop.

He saw the lights go on in his brother’s house and heard his dogs barking an enthusiastic welcome. He could mostly hear Stella, the little terrier-heeler cross, his brother’s favorite. He glanced over to Brandis’s trailer, which they’d gotten ready for Abby Steen, midway between his house and his brother’s. The windows were dark; the fridge was stocked; there were brand-new sheets on the bed. Jesse’d seen to it, at Noah’s suggestion. Noah hadn’t checked. It was none of his business. He just hoped the fridge held more than Big Rock lager and frozen pizza.

He stood abruptly, draining his beer, and walked into the house. He turned on the hall light, then flicked it off again and climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the dark. Cold and alone, in a bed that probably hadn’t been made properly since—when? Since Challa had left? Noah had had a one-time experience with a live-in lover in his mid-twenties. Finally Challa had gotten fed up with his dithering—should they get married, shouldn’t they?—and gone home. She was married now to a man from her reserve, a Stoney, and had two kids, last he’d heard. They lived west of Pincher Creek; her man was foreman at one of the big ranches down there. He hoped she was happy.

Oh well, cold and alone or not, he’d do what he usually did—read for a while, maybe, then try and get some sleep. He was meeting a man in town tomorrow, early, around eight o’clock at the Chickadee Café, someone who might do some custom seeding for him next month. He had an interview with the banker, as well, his regular twice-a-year talk. Then there was this business of Jesse and his bride-to-be.

He’d better ask them to dinner, at least. Someone had to take charge of the social niceties, and he was pretty sure his brother wasn’t going to do it.

“SAY, NOAH! Lookee here—”

Noah poured himself another cup of coffee from the counter machine without turning around. He recognized the voice—Wilf van Rijn. One of the dairy farmers just northeast of town. Leisurely, Noah picked up a fresh blueberry muffin from the plate near the coffee machine and nodded to Tina, the waitress behind the counter. She’d put it on his bill.

“Yeah?” He finally turned.

Wilf held up the newspaper he was reading, the Calgary Herald, a big grin on his face. He shook the paper. “Right here in the classifieds. A wife for you. City gal.”

A couple of the other men glanced up and chuckled. A few slid their eyes toward Noah, who was walking back to the booth he’d chosen. The fellow he was meeting this morning was late. It was already quarter past.

Noah smiled. It was a never-ending joke. Some of the local farmers had decided it was time he got married. Perhaps it was true what they said, that misery liked company. Two of the men’s wives were enjoying dalliances around the district—one with a hydro lineman and one with the vet’s assistant. It wasn’t exactly a secret; it was also none of his business.

“So, what you got there, Wilf?” he asked good-humoredly. He’d considered mentioning Jesse’s upcoming nuptials to take the spotlight off himself, but thought better of it. Now was not the time. He hadn’t even met the bride-to-be yet When he’d driven past the trailer this morning, he’d noticed the blinds were shut. That was a good sign. It meant she was sleeping in her own bed—although why the hell he should care about that now, he didn’t know. At least it indicated Jesse had taken him seriously when he’d warned about the gossip there’d be, which was some consolation in this whole mess.

“Listen to this—‘wanted, long-term partner, nonsmoker’—that’d be you, Noah—” Van Rijn glanced up, grinning, then returned to the newspaper column “—‘social drinker, enjoys dancing and going for walks in the country’—” The whole room erupted in a roar of male laughter.

“‘Loves Shania Twain and Garth Brooks’—” Another hoot. Noah smiled.

“‘Likes to cuddle on long winter nights.’ Oh, that’s good. ‘GWF’—say, what’s that mean? ‘G-W-F’?” Van Rijn glanced up, a puzzled expression on his broad good-natured face.

“Means she ain’t looking for no man, Wilf,” someone offered. The room erupted in laughter again.

“Well, he-ell,” the farmer finished ruefully, folding up the paper and setting it on the table in front of him. “It said ‘partner.’ Don’t say I didn’t try, Noah. I’m lookin’ out for your marital interests, like always....” He winked at the others and they all smiled and returned to their coffee mugs and plates of fried eggs and potatoes.

As did Noah. “Thanks, Wilf. I appreciate your interest—say. there’s Millard now.” The man he was meeting was just approaching the outer door.

Five minutes later, he was deep in conversation with Gene Millard, the operator he hoped to hire for some custom seeding next month, and the café banter was forgotten. It wasn’t as though that was the first time he’d been through that particular conversation. He got a version of it whenever he showed up in town early for coffee, about the time all the other farmers were having a café breakfast before starting their business in town.

WHEN NOAH GOT HOME, he noticed that Jesse’s pickup wasn’t in his driveway and there was no sign of activity at his bungalow, beyond the usual barking dogs. The blinds on the trailer were up.

It was after one o’clock. Maybe the lovebirds had gone out for lunch somewhere. Like Noah, Jesse wasn’t the world’s best cook.

Noah parked in his usual spot beside his house and got out, stretching first and then bending down to fondle Pat’s ears. Pat, his collie dog, was getting on, nearly twelve now, but still one of the best dogs for cattle know-how he’d ever owned. He walked up the steps to his kitchen door. The house wasn’t locked. He rarely locked it, unless no one else was at the ranch and he was going away for a few days. Carl was around somewhere, and wherever Jesse was, he’d be back soon.

The house was dim with no lights on and rather chilly, even at midday. He’d turned off the furnace at the beginning of the month, but he was beginning to think he’d been a little hasty. April had started off sunny and unseasonably warm, but that hadn’t lasted. The past few days had been windy, and wind sure chilled a place fast. He made a mental note to relight the furnace pilot when he came in for supper that evening. Speaking of supper...Noah walked over to the refrigerator and pulled a pound of ground beef out of the freezer compartment and tossed it into the sink to thaw.

These were the bits and pieces of his life, he thought gloomily as he began to climb the stairs to his bedroom to change into working clothes. They’d always been good enough before—why was he obsessing about them now? Because Jesse had landed himself a bride? Because he wasn’t going to be the main person in his brother’s life anymore? It was crazy; he and Jesse weren’t any closer, now that they were both grown, than any other pair of brothers. They’d been close as kids, but then farm and ranch kids usually were. There was work to do together and fun together in isolated circumstances. When Casey’d been alive...

And Macy, their mother.

Noah shook his head. No sense dwelling on the past. Macy’d never been in good health, and if she was alive today she’d be close to seventy. As for his father, no one knew what had happened to Jake. Most days, Noah was glad he was gone. Some days, he wished he at least knew if he was dead or alive.

Noah quickly changed into jeans and a well-washed flannel shirt, the sleeves of which he rolled up halfway to his elbows. He took his battered Stetson off the rack in the kitchen as he went out. It was lunchtime but he wasn’t hungry.

Pat didn’t get up, merely slapped her full-feathered tail slowly against the worn porch boards. Noah adjusted his hat against the sunshine. He’d go out to the machine shed and see how Carl was doing with the alternator part that had come in for the Massey Ferguson yesterday. Then there was that new colt he wanted to check on. He’d bred his favorite mare to one of Jeremiah Blake’s stallions over at the Diamond 8 last summer, and the foal was a beauty. He’d had a rheumy running eye, though, the past week, for which the vet had sold him ointment to administer twice a day. The eye seemed to be clearing up just fine.

Noah headed toward the barn, followed by a couple of the ranch dogs that generally hung around by the bunkhouse. Right now Carl was the only one in residence there, but at roundup and branding times and during the haying season, the bunkhouse would be full. He’d need a part-time cook then, too. Always something to do or think about on a ranch.

Noah rounded the corner by the barn, intent on his tasks for the afternoon. He stopped dead when one of the dogs froze, alert, one paw raised.

The east side of the paddock was mostly in shade from the big feed silos thirty feet farther to the east. Shafts of April sunlight stabbed through, between the silos. In one of those shafts of sunlight was a woman, leaning on the fence, holding out her hand to the curious foal, making small, soothing noises that Noah could barely hear. The dog must have heard her before he did.

His heart hammered. Damn it! This must be Jesse’s woman. Where in hell was his brother?

He stood still a few more seconds, rapidly taking in the medium height, the slim build, faded jeans, baggy T-shirt, sneakers, the long pale hair hanging loosely down her back. She was turned away from him and Noah didn’t think she was aware of his presence.

He cleared his throat and the dog bounded forward, released from his watch instincts. He saw the woman’s hands tighten on the top rail of the paddock, and the foal, snorting, raced back to his dam, his broom of a tail standing straight up. Noah’s mare whickered to him, but didn’t emerge from the shade of a big cottonwood where she stood swatting flies. \ Then the woman turned. She had a calm, pretty face—nothing fantastically beautiful—wide blue eyes and looked very, very young.

He stepped forward, clearing his throat again. “I’m, uh, Noah Winslow, Jesse’s brother.” He extended his hand automatically. She looked at it for a split second, then offered hers. Her hand was small and soft and, like his, tanned. A sensible hand, the nails trimmed short and unpolished. He dropped it like a hot potato. “You must be Abby.”

“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his and causing something to twist hard in his gut. He fought to hold her gaze, forcing himself to look at her face when his first instinct had been to glance at her belly. To see the swell there that was his brother’s child. The reason she was here in the first place.

“Yes, I’m Abby,” she repeated quietly. “Abby Steen.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHERE’S JESSE?” he demanded.

The man standing before her looked angry. Jesse had said his brother was difficult. The word he’d used was tough. This man was older than Jesse, and perhaps an inch taller. He was a big man, but where Jesse was broad and deep-chested, this man was lean and tough looking as nails. Right now he looked like he could chew the zinc coating off a few.

“He’s gone to town,” Abby said, twisting her hands behind her. She wasn’t afraid of him but she’d seen the way he’d fought to keep his eyes from her waist, and it had embarrassed her. Not enough to shelter her belly, though. She was proud of her pregnancy; she wanted this baby. Husband or no husband.

“He’s in town?” Noah Winslow glanced behind her, toward the paddock. “And he left you here?”

“Yes.” She didn’t feel she needed to add any reasons, or justify Jesse’s behavior. He’d done nothing wrong.

Abby could hear the soft pad-pad of the mare approaching across the grass. With the foal, she hoped. She loved horses and as a child growing up had often wished she could have one. Her father regarded a horse as a poor investment. She’d been involved with 4-H, as many farm children were, but she’d always bought and raised a Jersey heifer, one of her father’s animals. Her father had put the money she paid for the calf into a fund for her and her sister’s further education. Then, when she and her sister sold their animals, they were expected to add to the fund.

Noah shot her an odd questioning look, then stepped closer to the fence, with what she realized was a rare flash of tenderness on his grim face. For the foal. Perhaps he reserved all his feeling for animals. He held his hand out to the mare and scratched between her ears. He looked briefly toward Abby. “What did he go to town for?”

It was a simple, direct question. As though he’d half expected to find her here. As though he already knew who she was, where she fit in. That she belonged to Jesse. She supposed Jesse had told him. But did he know how scared she was? Did he know how many second thoughts she’d had since Jesse had picked her up at the bus station the night before?

“He said he wanted to get the marriage license. and make a few arrangements,” she said, explaining after all. She took a deep breath, for calm. “We’ve decided we should get married as soon as possible.”

Then he looked at her waist. Abby had the distinct feeling he’d wanted to all along and couldn’t stop himself now. His eyes immediately returned to the mare, but she hadn’t missed the tightened jaw, either. “Makes sense,” was his noncommittal comment.

He reached out and tried to touch the foal, which jumped back at the last moment and went to stand at his mama’s flank. “I thought maybe he’d have taken care of that by now. The license, I mean.”

She met his level questioning glance. His eyes were a greenish-hazel color, not blue like Jesse’s. “He said he was waiting until I got here. That I might have some papers he’d need.”

“Uh-huh.”

Noah stepped onto the lower rail of the fence and threw his left leg over the top rail. Then he was inside, approaching the foal with a low, soothing tone, his hand out. The foal stood nervously, ready to run. Expertly, with slow, steady movements, Noah wrapped his arm around the foal’s neck and held him firmly. He bent and drew the lower eyelid down with one thumb, while the foal struggled futilely in his grip.

“Is something wrong with him? With his eye?” Abby moved closer to the fence, curious, her hands in her jeans’ pockets.

Noah didn’t look up. “He’s had a bad eye for a few days. Seems to be cleared up now.” He stroked the foal’s white blaze and then scratched between his ears briefly before releasing him. With a high-pitched squeal, the foal wheeled and galloped awkwardly to the far side of the paddock. The mare merely turned her head and gave her offspring a mild wondering glance.

Abby smiled. “She doesn’t seem too concerned.”

“No.” Noah glanced her way and for a second or two, she thought he’d smile, too. At her. Then he returned his attention to the mare. “She’s a good old girl. One of the best.” He patted her neck affectionately and the mare tossed her head up and down vigorously, almost as though she were answering him.

“What’s her name?”

“Peg.”

“Peg?” Abby thought that was a very ordinary name for a horse. “What kind of horse is she?”

Noah threw her a surprised look. “Quarter horse,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt that he considered her a complete idiot.

He came toward the rails of the corral. “When did my brother say he was coming back?”

“He didn’t say. Soon, I think.”

“I see.” He studied her briefly. Abby had the impression he didn’t miss much. “You settle in all right?” he asked.

“In the trailer? Yes, thank you.” She stepped back and watched as he climbed back over the rail. “I’m delighted. I didn’t know I’d have my own little place.”

He frowned. Perhaps he didn’t care for small talk. Surly brute. “You have lunch yet?”

“Well, there’s some frozen stuff in the fridge I planned to take out—”

“Come on up to the house,” he interrupted. “I’ll give you a sandwich or something.” He paused, hesitated, frowned again. Then he fell into step beside her. Abby heard the clang of metal on metal from behind the barn; someone must be working on some machinery back there. In a way—she didn’t know why—she was relieved to know there was another person on the place.

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to bother you. I’m sure you have plenty to do—”

“No bother. I’ve got stuff to do, yes, but I can’t let you miss lunch because Jesse’s gone off to town and hasn’t got back yet—”

Abby was going to protest again, then realized that, like many men, he probably thought she was in a fragile condition because of her pregnancy and couldn’t possibly miss a meal. The truth was, she was hungry. And when she’d looked inside the trailer’s fridge and seen only a quart of milk, a six-pack of beer, some margarine, a loaf of the most hideous white sliced bread and vinyl-packaged orangish cheese slices, as well as a freezer full of pizza cartons, she’d lost her appetite, despite her hunger. All she’d had for breakfast was a glass of milk. Since she’d gotten rid of her morning sickness in late March, she hadn’t suffered from any loss of appetite. Until today.

“All right.” She took a deep breath and glanced up at her future brother-in-law. He was only trying to be hospitable, in his straightforward way, she supposed. She had to do her best to make this new life work out, and one of the jobs she’d have would be to get along with all of Jesse’s relations. Including this brother.

“All right, I’ll have some lunch, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble. Jesse should be back by then.” She didn’t add that she’d been alarmed when Jesse had come down to the trailer to tell her he was going to town to do some business. Somehow she’d thought their reunion would be a bit more romantic. That maybe he’d even take her to town, introduce her around. Still, his excuse to leave her behind—that she needed to catch up on her rest—made sense, too.

Noah nodded briefly and led her toward the shabbily painted white house on the hill—the house Jesse had told her belonged to his parents before him and was now his older brother’s. The house was surrounded by thickets of unkempt grass and unpruned rose creepers. The family home. From the look of the place, you certainly couldn’t accuse the Winslows of being house-proud.

ABBY DIDN’T THINK she’d ever seen such a shambles in her life.

The house wasn’t, well, dirty-although she was pretty sure it hadn’t seen more than a broom in quite some time—but it was a general mess. There were newspapers piled high on a rocking chair. There were magazines and jars of peanut butter and honey and sugar and jam and industrial-size cardboard containers of salt and pepper on the table. There had to be at least five or six calendars stacked behind the current one on the wall, all hanging from a six-inch nail. When the nail was full, did he remove the earliest calendars and discard them? Probably not.

The sink was full of rinsed-but-not-washed dishes, and Abby noticed that Noah retrieved clean plates and cutlery from the dishwasher. He was obviously of the philosophy that you took clean dishes out of the dishwasher until it was empty, then you loaded it back up with the soiled ones. This could take time. And for a single man, it probably meant several days with dishes stacked in the sink.

The concept of replacing clean dishes in a cupboard and keeping the dirty ones in the dishwasher, not the sink, was clearly a foreign one. Abby could relate—her father was like that. Not that her mother ever left her father alone long enough to have the dishes stack up to any degree.

There was an elderly dog asleep under the table. It didn’t move when they came in, and Abby hoped it wasn’t dead. The microwave looked well used, and two burners of the stove were covered with a metal tray holding first-aid materials—bandages, Mercurochrome, Vaseline, burn ointment, tweezers, disinfectant. She supposed that was because it was handy. It also indicated he didn’t cook much, or not with the range, anyway.

“Sandwich?” Noah waved her toward the table and stood with the refrigerator door open. She could see that it was well stocked.

“S-sure. A sandwich would be fine.” She sat down on a hard wooden chair.

“Grilled cheese? Hot Reuben? Ham, mustard and pickle?”

“Uh.” Hot Reuben? “Whatever you’re having.”

“Okay. Reuben, it is.” He glanced at her and again, Abby glimpsed the humor that lay beneath the man’s craggy exterior. He was probably joking. She was game.

Abby watched as he took rye bread from a cupboard—at least it wasn’t sliced white—and liberally spread four slices with butter and mustard. Then he piled on cheese slices—Cheddar, not Swiss or Muenster, but that was okay—and pastrami, topping the whole with some sauerkraut he spooned out of a jar he’d taken from the fridge. He only looked over at her once. “You can dump the junk that’s on the table onto one of the chairs, if you want,” he invited cordially.

She did; meanwhile he took the sandwiches to the microwave and nuked them for a minute or so, then retrieved two glasses from the dishwasher. “Milk, juice or beer?” he asked, holding up the glasses.

“Milk for me,” she replied. She found this whole process fascinating. He appeared to be very comfortable in his own kitchen, as though he’d traced the path from refrigerator to table to microwave so many times he could make a sandwich and get a beer in his sleep.

Noah brought two plates and another plate with the sandwiches on them. The bread was steaming—not exactly grilled, but definitely hot. Then he went back to the refrigerator and got out a jug of milk and a can of beer, which he held in one hand, the two glasses in the other.

Abby poured herself a glass of milk, while Noah settled himself on the chair opposite her.

“Eat,” he said, gesturing at her sandwich when she hesitated. Well, that was plain enough. No niceties here. He picked up his own sandwich and paused, looking her straight in the eye.

“So, you intend to marry my brother, do you?”

“Er—” Abby quickly put down her sandwich, which she’d been about to sample. “I didn’t come all this way not to marry him, did I?” She was annoyed at the direct question. More than annoyed. Really, it was none of this man’s business what she wanted.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he replied, taking a bite of his sandwich.

She chewed daintily, ignoring him, then swallowed and sipped at her milk. “No,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose it does.”

He stared at her, then popped the tab on his beer can. “I guess that is my brother’s child you’re carrying?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are an extremely rude man?” Abby snapped angrily, forgetting her manners. “In the first place, I had no intention of marrying your brother or anyone, whether I was pregnant or not. I am perfectly capable of having this child and raising it by myself.”

“I have no doubt of that,” he murmured, not meeting her eye. He examined his sandwich critically, then took another bite.

Abby was so mad she could’ve spit. She wished Jesse would get back. She certainly was beginning to get an idea of what he meant by “difficult.” For two cents she’d just walk out, but she wasn’t going to give Noah Winslow the satisfaction.

“So,” she said, after counting silently to ten, “what do you grow on this ranch?” A change of subject was in order.

“Grow?” He looked at her, astonished. “We raise cattle. Herefords. We also raise hay and some feed grain. We don’t grow anything. This isn’t a farm, you know.”

“No, Jesse did tell me that much.” She managed to mangle and swallow another bite of sandwich. The milk was cold and good, and the sandwich, she had to admit, wasn’t half-bad. “I’m from a farm, you see. We had Jerseys.”

“Uh-huh. What made you change your mind? If you don’t mind me asking,” he said.

“Change my mind? What—about the farm?” She was thoroughly confused.

“No. About raising your baby yourself.”

Abby stared at him and he stared right back. “As a matter of fact, I do mind you asking but I’m going to tell you anyway, as we’re going to be related soon and I see no sense in not doing my best to get along with you, rude man or not.” She paused, collected every ounce of teacher-trained serenity and went on. “Now, what exactly do you mean, ‘changed my mind’?”

“Why’d you decide to marry my brother, after all? Considering you figured you’d raise this kid yourself.” His gaze was level and cold as steel.

“Because your brother asked me to marry him,” she replied calmly, even loftily. “And I said I would. That’s why.” Thank heavens! Thank heavens that was the truth.

“You must have expected. he’d ask—”

“I had no idea he’d ask me to marry him. It never crossed my mind. My only thought was that he had a right to know about the baby. You can believe me or not, I don’t care. Has anyone ever told you how incredibly, detestably rude you are, not to mention nosy?”

“Once or twice. You hardly know him. I don’t mean in the Biblical sense—”

“I know him well enough to know he’s a kind, gentle, generous man!” she cried. “I know him well enough to know he’ll make a good husband and a wonderful father.”

“Ha!” Noah drained his beer. “I’m afraid I know him a lot better than you do, and I can only say I hope you’re right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Abby was lost. First it seemed he didn’t want her to marry his brother; then it seemed he did.

“Just what I said. I hope you’re right. Woman in your condition doesn’t have a whole lot of time to check things out.”

Abby and Noah finished their meal in silence. Abby poured herself another half glass of milk, just to show that she wasn’t rattled in the slightest, drained it, then stood. “Thank you for lunch. It was very kind of you to offer,” she said, smiling sunnily, hoping the irony wasn’t lost on him. She was sure it wasn’t.

He stood, too. The dog under the table got up and waddled out, woofing softly. Then they heard a pickup drive up and screech to a halt outside. The dog barked twice. Footsteps took the porch steps several at a time.

Jesse!

“Noah? You here? Where’s Abby?” Jesse called through the open screen door. “She’s not in the trailer. You seen her around?”

Abby looked triumphantly at her prospective brother-in-law across the table. See? He’s a kind, generous man who cares. a great deal for me, just as I said....

“Come on in, Jess. She’s right here.” Noah stepped away from the table and walked to the door just as Jesse pushed it open and walked in. His gaze went swiftly from his brother to her. She smiled.

“Noah gave me some lunch,” she said simply. “Wasn’t that neighborly?”

Jesse beamed. “Hey, that’s great! Well, I got everything done in town—” He took a deep breath and turned to his brother. “Got the license and everything. We’re gonna get married on Friday.”

It was Thursday now. “Tomorrow?” she asked softly, unable to stop herself from a quick, indrawn breath. This was all happening so quickly....

“No, next week. Magistrate was all booked up until then. That okay, Ab?” Jesse looked worried for a moment.

“That’s fine.” She moved over to stand close to Jesse. Noah’s expression was skeptical. She took Jesse’s hand in hers, wishing he didn’t look quite so surprised when she did. “That’ll give me time to get ready. Buy a dress. Do some shopping. Write a few letters home.”

“You finished here? You ready to go back to my place?” Jesse asked.

“Uh-huh.” She glanced at Noah and then hated herself for the blush she felt rising to her cheeks. She knew Jesse only meant that she should come to his place to discuss their plans, maybe have coffee or something. She was a little taken aback by how distant he’d been, physically. He’d done no more than hug her when she got off the bus and hadn’t touched her since.

But that wasn’t what Noah was thinking... knowing him in the Biblical sense, as he’d said. He thought they were going to Jesse’s for some leisurely afternoon sex. She felt more acutely aware of everything she said and did around Noah than she did around Jesse, the man she planned to marry. The man who’d made love to her and who’d fathered the child she carried.

Everything was mixed up; everything was wrong.

“You going to the Dexters’ anniversary on Saturday?” Noah asked his brother. “Mona will be expecting you.”

Jesse smiled at her. “Sure am. Gonna introduce Abby to all the folks.”

“The Dexters?” Abby asked. “Who are they?”

“Oh, just some neighbors, Ab,” he replied, glancing at his brother. “Old Man and Old Lady Dexter been married fifty years and some of the family got up a surprise party for ‘em. At the community hall. We’re invited. Noah, too.”

“I see.” Abby smiled in return. “I’m looking forward to it. Shall we go now, Jesse?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.” Holding her fiancé’s hand, Abby left the kitchen, feeling completely silly about everything that had taken place there. She couldn’t help imagining she felt the heat of Noah’s gaze on them all the way to Jesse’s pickup, but she’d be damned if she’d look back to see if she was right.

And she didn’t. She’d finished looking back when she left South Dakota.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE DEXTERS’ ANNIVERSARY celebration began with a tea for the older folks on Saturday afternoon, followed by a buffet dinner and dancing at the Glory and District Community Hall.

Noah had decided they’d show up about five, introduce Abby around and then get the hell out of there before the dancing. Normally, he might have considered staying for the whole event, but now that his brother’s bride-to-be had arrived from out of nowhere, he figured the best plan was to get in and get out. Avoid the overcurious. The tough part was going to be introducing her as Jesse’s surprise ladylove to all their neighbors and friends. No one would be expecting what could only be described as a shotgun wedding from either of the Winslows.

Jesse and Abby were riding with him, as Jesse owned only his pickup, while Noah had both his pickup and a six-year-old four-door Chevrolet sedan, as well. Low-end, nothing fancy, but it served its purpose, which was mainly long highway trips and the occasional date. Taking a woman out to a decent restaurant in a work truck was a teenager’s trick, in his opinion.

By half past four he was ready, wearing dress pants and boots, a crew-necked white knit T-shirt—Noah couldn’t abide ties—and a Western-cut jacket. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, as usual, only this was his going-out model, a fine tan-colored beaver-felt Stetson. He had to adjust the seat on the Chevy, since Carl had driven it last, then put it. into gear and eased slowly down the hill. He was picking up the lovebirds at Jesse’s house.

He parked in the driveway, and when no one appeared right away, leaned gently on the horn. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Pat was walking slowly to her favorite spot behind one of the feed sheds and, as he watched, she turned three times and settled down, gazing sadly toward him. That old poser, he thought. He often took the dog with him in his pickup, but never in the car.

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.