Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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grew smaller with distance and still he watched. Her blue skirt became nothing more than a dot on the brown plains, and he could not turn away.
One thing was sure. When it came to Mrs. Sarah Redding, he’d be wise to keep his distance.
Chapter Four
L ate-night weariness tugged at Sarah like a cold north wind as she wrung water from the mop. Droplets tinkled in the bucket and the soap sudsed, sending up tiny bubbles to pop in the candlelight.
Over the past year she’d washed this floor so many times, she didn’t make a sound or need more than the single flickering light as she bent to her work. A board squeaked beneath her foot, the only sound in the silent hotel.
Earning her keep at her aunt and uncle’s homestead left her little time to earn the money she needed. There was always an expensive new medicine to pay for or new shoes to buy, for Ella was always growing. What was left of her salary went to pay the doctor.
It was times like these when she was exhausted from a long week of working days and half the nights and when living with her aunt and uncle seemed unbearable, she didn’t know how she could keep going.
Her small weekly payments seemed to make no difference; the debt she was in seemed insurmountable. When she was falling asleep on her feet and her hands bled from lye soap, it seemed her life was never going to improve.
She was simply tired, and she knew it. Tomorrow, when the sun was rising and the breeze brought with it the sweetness of the morning prairie, she would feel differently. She always did. She took heart in that. Today had been an especially difficult one.
Uncle Milt’s mood had not improved by suppertime, and he grew into a rage when told of the latest gossip concerning their new neighbor, Gage Gatlin. Sarah shivered, remembering the look in her uncle’s eyes when he spoke of the man he believed to be a drifter, the man who’d taken cattle that Milt had decided were his.
A shivery sense of foreboding that sat deep in the pit of her stomach stung worse than her hands as she dunked the mop into the pail and wrung the excess water. She had a bad feeling about this. Milt wasn’t the most kind or honest of men. How far would he go? Would he steal those animals? Or worse?
Sarah’s chest felt tight with worry as she gripped the mop handle more tightly and accidentally banged the side of the bucket.
A metallic clank shot through the silence like a gunshot. She froze, listening to the echo fade in the long corridor. Wincing, she gently eased the mop back into the water, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t startled anyone awake.
The door in the shadowed hallway flew open and a man’s broad shape emerged as dark as the night, only a silhouette against the pitch-black room behind him.
Sarah felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. With water dripping onto the floor, she carried her mop with her as she dared to step toward him. “I’m truly sorry I woke you, sir. I—”
There was a metallic click that echoed eerily through the night. Sarah froze when she realized it was the sound of a revolver being uncocked and lowered. The man was armed. She didn’t know what to say as he jammed the Colt into the leather holster he carried and wiped his brow with his sleeve.
“Sorry about that, ma’am. I guess that sounded too much like a gunshot to a man sound asleep.” He lifted one sculpted shoulder in a shrug.
Gage Gatlin. The mop handle slipped from her grip and clattered on the wet floor. She jumped when the noise bounced down the hallway like cannon fire. Oops. That wasn’t helping her job any. “I suppose that sounded like a band of road agents taking over the hotel.”
Before she could kneel to rescue her mop, he was there, bending down and into the light, his dark hair tousled handsomely, his jaw rough and his eyes weary.
So very weary. Sarah could only stare, mesmerized, as he straightened, only wearing his trousers, unsnapped and unbuckled, the faint lamplight caressing the span of his bare chest and abdomen.
A very fine chest and abdomen. Sarah swallowed hard, feeling heat burn her throat and sear her face. It was entirely indecent to notice the light dusting of fine dark hair that splayed across his chest and arrowed down his firm, toned abdomen to where his silver belt buckle winked in the shadowed light from downstairs.
“I didn’t know you worked here.” He held out the dripping mop, his stance open, a crook of curiosity arching his brows. “Your uncle and aunt don’t keep you busy enough?”
She blushed harder, but for a different reason. He’d said his words kindly enough, although it didn’t stop the shame from creeping through her.
Remembering how lovely the banker’s daughter had looked this morning when she’d visited Mr. Gatlin, Sarah felt plain indeed. Small and mousy and as dull as the patched dress she wore.
She didn’t want to be attracted to Mr. Gage Gatlin anyway, so it didn’t matter what she looked like. Gathering her pride, she straightened her spine, looked him in the eye and took possession of her mop. “Living on the homestead has become rather dull, so I spend my nights in town seeking one thrill after the next.”
“You strike me as that sort of woman. Far too bold for propriety’s sake.”
“That’s what everyone always tells me.” As if to prove her point, she dunked the mop in the bucket and knelt, her soft skirts swirling around her, and wrung the excess water with a twist of her small, delicate hands.
Gage swallowed. “And you spend your free time roaming the halls of this hotel, I take it. Causing trouble wherever you go.”
“That’s right. I’ve even been known to be so brash as to scrub pots in the kitchen, if it’s been a late night for the cook.”
“Ma’am, with your reputation I’d best stay clear of you.”
That made her laugh, light and quiet, and how that made his pulse surge through his veins. Fast and thick and hot enough to make him take notice of the way her apron clung to her shape as she swished the mop across the floor between them. He was a man and couldn’t help noticing the soft nip of her waist and the gentle sway of her breasts as she worked.
Gage tamped down a hotter, more primal response. He was tired, that was all, and troubled by the nightmare that had torn him awake tonight. By the remnants of a dream that had been shattered when he’d heard the pop of metal in the corridor.
Memory was a strange thing, making the past so real he could taste it, smell it. He wondered if there would ever come a time or a place where he felt safe. Had he come far enough? Would he find peace in this small Montana town? On these high, desolate plains?
Sarah Redding wiped at the floor with determined strokes, leaving tiny soap bubbles popping in the air above his bare toes. She was looking awfully hard at the floor, and now that his head was clear and the nightmare gone, he could see why.
Half naked, with a holstered gun in one hand. Now, didn’t that beat all? “Guess I’d best apologize. Next time I hear a commotion in the hallway, I’d better pull on a shirt first. If you come here often, that is.”
“Five nights every week.”
He reached into his room and found his shirt hanging on a peg by feel. “It’s two in the morning. When does your wild night on the town end?”
“When I reach the end of the hall.” Her mop dove playfully at his feet.
Being a wise man, he backed into the threshold. “So, you work half the night, and then you’re up before dawn to feed the chickens.”
“Sure. It keeps me busy. Out of trouble.”
He heard what she didn’t say. When you have a child, you do what it takes to provide for her. He knew all about that. And he’d had his share of seeing what happened when parents didn’t. Or worse, for that matter.
He closed his mind against the memories he didn’t want. From a time when