Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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A zing of sensation skipped down her spine, making her aware of this man, so strong and silent. Far too aware. Her blood felt warm in her veins, and she stared intently at the hole in the earth. Could he guess that she was attracted to him?
“I don’t suppose this is the Buchanan spread?”
“No.”
“That’s the way my luck’s been running lately.” He tipped his black hat lower over his eyes. “I’ll need a shovel.”
“A shovel? Oh, I can’t let you fix this.” The sooner he rode away, the faster her reaction to him would fade. She took off her apron and stuffed it into the small hole. “There, this will do for now.”
“Don’t want my help?”
“I don’t know you, sir.”
“Last name’s Gatlin.” His hard mouth softened into a small grin at the corners. “My friends call me Gage. You look alone here. Is this your place?”
“No, this is my aunt’s husband’s farm. She’s busy in the house, and Uncle Milt is out early in the fields.”
She climbed to her feet only to realize there was a dirt stain across the front of her bodice from preparing the garden spot yesterday. She looked like the poor relation she was.
Well, nothing could be done about it now. “What are you doing riding this way, Mr. Gatlin?”
“Looking for my next job.”
She spotted a stray chicken and dashed after it. Mr. Gatlin’s fine-blooded mare snorted in surprise as she whisked past. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah noticed the polished leather of the quality saddle, and the expensive rifle cover strapped beneath the right stirrup. “Your next job? You don’t look like a drifter.”
“And you look like you need some help.” The grin in the corners of his mouth widened a little more as he stood, all power and masculinity.
Making her feel small and plain.
She scooped a hen from the grass at the roadside. When she turned around, he was gone. So, he thought he’d help her, would he? Judging by the quality of his horse and saddle, he didn’t need to trade work for a meal.
So what did he want? Or was he merely being a gentleman? She marched past his horse and deposited the hen in the coop, not sure what to do if Mr. Gatlin was only being kind. She hadn’t been around a kind man in so long—since her husband died—that she’d almost forgotten they truly existed.
By the time she’d caught her third escaped chicken, Gage Gatlin ambled out of the barn carrying a battered shovel.
“Might as well make myself useful. I’m rusty at helping maidens in distress, but I’ll get better with practice.”
“You’re out of practice at shoveling? Or helping a woman?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Why’s that?” She held the squawking chicken against her chest with one hand as she reached for the door latch. “Is there a wife you’re running away from?”
He was at her side in an instant, radiating heat and strength as he opened the door for her. “There’s no wife.”
“I see.” She brushed past him to release the bird.
He nodded toward the south, where the rolling prairie stretched endlessly. “I’m looking for a fellow who’s got a place not far from here. I thought this was the place, but I must have taken the wrong road.”
“You did.” She brushed dirt and chicken feathers from her worn skirt. “I happen to know where that ranch is.”
“Is that so? Then maybe we can make a deal.”
“Why did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because I’m bound and determined to help you out, ma’am.”
“Fine. You fix my chicken fence and I’ll give you the best directions you’ve ever had. Is that what you want?”
“I say it’s a satisfactory deal. I’d best get to work.”
“I have eggs to gather.” She grabbed a basket and hurried through the little chicken yard toward the snug henhouse. Her skirts rustled with her gait, her long braids snapping.
Gage watched her go. She moved like May across the prairie, light and easy on the eyes. And because she wasn’t wearing a petticoat beneath that threadbare dress, he could make out the shape of her legs as she ran. Long, lean, but not skinny. And her hair, as bright as gold, made him glad to be a man. It trailed down her back as rich as sunlight.
There were times he missed having a woman to pull close. Especially a woman like this one.
She disappeared into the coop, and it was too bad. He liked the way she looked, even with the feather stuck in her hair. Her dress was faded and her sunbonnet needed starching, but she was the prettiest female he’d seen in a long while.
He filled in the hole and tamped it down good around the wood post. Without new wire, he couldn’t do better, but it would hold for now. As he climbed to his feet, he couldn’t help but hear angry voices coming from the weather-beaten shanty.
Lived with her relatives, did she? He felt sorry for her as he carried the shovel to the barn and stowed it in the same dirty corner where he’d found it. He knew something about families and anger.
Not that he had much family to call his own anymore. Aside from his little girl, his parents were buried and his brothers and sisters were spread across the West like seeds on the wind. Considering the house he’d grown up in and the marriage he’d had, being alone wasn’t so bad.
The horse shied as he came near.
“Easy girl, I’m not the one who’s angry.” Gage patted the mare’s warm neck. “I told you, you’re safe with me.”
The horse’s ears swiveled. Her skin twitched nervously and not even his touch could soothe her.
Gage’s gaze followed the sounds of anger. In a glance he noticed the shanty’s front steps were loose and the porch boards uneven. The screen door sagged on tired hinges. Before he could decide to step up to the house to try to intercede, the shrill woman’s voice faded into silence.
Troubled, he waited. He could hear a faint humming from inside the chicken coop and soon, there she was, breezing down the ramp, swinging her basket of well-packed eggs. Her worn gray dress swirled around her ankles like music.
Spotting him, she wove around the chickens and through the small gate. “I see you kept your end of the bargain.”
“It’s the best I can do without new wire.” Gage shrugged, snapping clods of dirt from the crumpled garment he’d rescued from the earth. “Here’s your apron. I guess it’s your turn to help me out.”
“With the directions. I had better take a look at the repair you did to the fence. If it isn’t good enough, I just may give you bad directions.”
“I expect good directions as I did a remarkable job.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. Couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but this little slip of a woman made his burdens seem to disappear, if only for a moment.
She knelt to inspect his work, a small smile on her soft lips as if she were holding back more laughter. As if she were taking pleasure in teasing him.
“All right. I guess that will do. It’s the Buchanan land you’re looking for?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I’m expected to arrive this morning. I gave my word.”
“A man of his word, are you? I thought those didn’t exist anymore.” She swept close to snatch the balled-up apron.
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