High Country Bride. Jillian Hart
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off her. She grabbed the towel the children had neatly folded and tossed it into the laundry box in the back of the wagon.
“Mrs. Nelson. I’m talking to you.”
“Yes, I know. If you expect me to stand there while you tongue-lash me, you’re mistaken. I have packing to get to.” Her fingers were clumsy as she hefted the bucket of water she’d brought for washing—she wouldn’t need that now—and heaved.
His hand clasped the handle beside hers, and she could feel the life and power of him vibrate along the thin metal. “Give it to me.”
Her fingers let go. She felt stunned as he walked away, easily carrying the bucket, which had been so heavy for her. Quietly, methodically, he put out the small cooking fire. He did not seem as ominous or as intimidating—somehow—as he stood in the shadows, bent to his task, although she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t acting the way she was used to men acting. She was quite accustomed to doing all the work.
James scurried over, clutching his wooden horse, to watch. Daisy hung back, eyes wide and still, taking in the mysterious goings-on.
He was different when he was near to them, she realized. He didn’t seem harsh, and there was no hint of anger—or, come to think of it, any other emotion—as he shook out the empty bucket, nodded once to the children and then retraced his path to her.
“Let me guess.” He dropped the bucket onto the tailgate, and his anger appeared to be back. Cords strained in his neck and jaw again as he growled at her. “If you leave here, you don’t know where you’re going and you have no money to get there with?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then get you and your kids into the wagon. I’ll hitch up your horses for you.” His eyes were cold and yet not unfeeling as he fastened his gaze on hers. “I have a shanty out back of my house that no one’s living in. You can stay there for the night.”
“What?” She stumbled back, and the solid wood of the tailgate bit into the small of her back. “But—”
“There will be no argument,” he snapped, interrupting her. “None at all. I buried a wife and son years ago, what was most precious to me, and to see you and them neglected like this—with no one to care…” His jaw clenched again, and his eyes were no longer cold.
Joanna didn’t think she’d ever seen anything sadder than Aiden McKaslin standing there in the slanting rays of the setting sun.
Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked away, melting into the thick shadows of the summer evening.
Chapter Three
As he led the way across his land, it was all Aiden could do not to look behind him. He knew the covered wagon was following him across the rolling prairie, but he steeled his resolve. He would not turn around and see that woman alone, thin from hunger and pale with strain. He could not take any more, so he contented himself with listening to the plod of the tired horses’ hooves on the sun-baked earth, and the rhythmic squeak of the wagon’s rear axel.
Yep, he didn’t like this one bit, but he hated even worse the notion of sitting home tonight, comfortable and safe and fed, knowing that a nice woman and her children were unprotected and uncherished and alone.
No, it just wasn’t right. Emotion clogged his throat, making it hard to swallow, making it hard to breathe. He refused to let his gaze wander to the east, where the family cemetery lay in shadow, the headstones tall enough to see from his saddle. That’s what got him all stirred up. Seeing this woman alone, and her small children homeless, rubbed at the break in his soul that had never healed properly.
He didn’t see how it ever could. A loss like that was too much for a man to take.
It was a long ride home through the low rays of the sun. A cooling breeze kicked up, and he drew in the fresh air until it settled in his lungs. He let his chest empty of all the feelings in there. By the time he spotted the sun winking on the windows of home, he was safe from his wounds again.
The young boy’s voice rose above the call of a quail and the rustling wind in the grass. “Ma! Ma! Is that where we’re gonna live?”
Aiden tried not to be affected by the young’un’s excitement, nor by his mother’s gentle response.
“No, sweetheart, that’s where Mr. McKaslin lives.”
“But it’s so big, Ma. Are you sure?”
“Yes. We’re going to live in his shanty.”
“Oh.”
Aiden steeled himself to the sound of the small boy’s disappointment, too. He told himself the shanty was snug and would do just fine for them all, but the truth was, he couldn’t stomach the notion of having another woman in the house he’d built for Kate.
He followed the fork in the road that skirted the barn and led south from the main house to the small dark structure of wood and plaster. He heard the children’s quiet questions to their mother and tried not to hear the soothing lull of her answers as he dismounted.
Opening the door and finding the nearest lantern kept his mind off the ragged family climbing down from their wagon in the front yard. By the time he’d lit the second lantern, the boy stood in the open doorway, looking smaller for the darkness and shadows cast over him.
The child’s serious eyes were unblinking as he watched Aiden cross the one-room house to the cook-stove in the corner. If his guess was right about Mrs. Nelson, she would want tea with supper and wash water for cleaning up. He knelt down and began to build a fire with the bucket of kindling and sticks of wood left over from when his middle brother had been living here.
The boy said nothing, just watched with wide eyes. Aiden tried not to think much about the child. Not out of heartlessness—no, never that.
By the time he got the fire lit and flames licked greedily at the tinder-dry wood, the woman arrived at the door with her littlest on her hip. Without a word she glanced around the shanty. Her face was gaunt in the half darkness, her feelings masked. He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed in the shelter or relieved.
After closing the stove door, he rose to his feet. “I’ll bring in some water for you, ma’am. I’ll send my brother out with supper.”
“No. Thank you, but no.” She looked stricken. “I’ve already been so much trouble to you. I can’t be—I won’t be—more beholden to you. I—”
“You shoulda thought of that when you decided to live on a piece of my property.” He watched her rear back—just a step, just a small movement, but somehow it felt like a larger motion. As if he’d truly insulted her. It was not what he’d meant.
Tread softly, man. He checked his voice, gentling it as much as he was able. “Just put aside your worries for tonight. I’ll sleep easier knowing you and your young ones are safe instead of sleeping out there alone on the prairie. Do you understand?”
“Fine. Then we’ll speak again tomorrow. I am grateful.” Tension still tightened her face, and the flickering light seemed to emphasize the hollows and lines there, in those lovely features that ought to be soft with happiness and contentment.
It was not a fair world, and he knew it as much as anyone. He jammed the match tin onto the shelf with a little too much force. Watching the way Mrs. Nelson’s gaze moved with relief and pleasure around the shanty shamed him. The place wasn’t much. He wasn’t sure what his Christian duty was, but he hoped he was doing his share. He touched his hat brim. “’Scuse me, ma’am, I’ll say good night, then.”
“Thank you for your kindness.” She moved from the doorway with a rustle of petticoats and a hush of skirts, careful to keep her distance from him. “Good night, Mr. McKaslin.”
When he crossed the threshold, he could feel her sigh of relief. He made her uneasy, and it troubled him as he hiked through the growing grasses,