Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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“I see the good in you, Gage.”
It was so simple, really, his integrity, his strength, his kindness.
What was she doing? Gage wasn’t for her, but the beauty of this meadow was. Wonder surrounded her in a pool of delicate flowers.
She ran her fingers through the leaves and petals, softer than silk to touch, and breathed deeply. “This is what hope smells like.”
“You could be right.” He knelt too.
Gage stared at her, his gloved hand settling at the small of her back, his other reaching toward her face.
There was no panic or outrage or shock as he eased close. So close their breaths mingled and their lips met in a soft, luscious caress.
Eyes fluttering shut, she surrendered. Dying a little bit as he caught her bottom lip between his and sucked just right. The sensation was the single best thing she’d ever felt. Ever!
Praise for JILLIAN HART’S recent works
Bluebonnet Bride
“Ms. Hart expertly weaves a fine tale of the heart’s ability to find love after tragedy. Pure reading pleasure!”
—Romantic Times
Montana Man
“…a great read!”
—Rendezvous
Cooper’s Wife
“…a wonderfully written romance full of love and laughter.”
—Rendezvous
Last Chance Bride
“The warm and gentle humanity of Last Chance Bride is a welcome dose of sunshine…”
—Romantic Times
Montana Legend
Jillian Hart
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
Montana, 1884
L ooking up from her early morning chores, Sarah Redding watched the distant horse and rider against the vast expanse of the eastern horizon. The newly rising sun peered over the edge of the world, casting the mounted man in silhouette, limning him with light. Morning came soft as a whisper to the land, but it seemed as if the daylight did not touch him. The stranger rode in darkness.
He’s like a myth, all power and steel, she thought as the rider grew nearer on the road from town. Then closer still until she could see the angle of his Stetson, the glint of silver at his belt and the blue of his denim trousers.
“What kept you? I’ve been waiting on the milk,” a sharp voice scolded from inside the weather-beaten shanty.
“I’ve got the full pail right here.”
“Then hand it through the door. You’re running late with your chores again.” Aunt Pearl, a babe balanced on her hip, rammed open the screen door and seized the tin bucket. “I’ll strain this. Hurry and go, before Milt comes in from the fields wanting his breakfast.”
There would be trouble to pay if that happened, Sarah knew. As a widow with an ill child, she could not risk angering her uncle, not when she was down on her luck.
She plucked the egg basket from the porch, determined to waste no more time daydreaming about the lone rider with the fancy Stetson.
Still, she wondered about him. He didn’t look to be from around here. Strangers were few and far between on this forgotten spot on the Montana prairie. Who was he and why was he here? Sarah resisted the urge to turn toward the horizon as she unlatched the chicken house door.
High, angry squawks filled the air as chickens hurled toward her, flapping their wings. Yellow beaks pecked at her ankles and she shooed the mean birds away.
I’m grateful to be here, she reminded herself. She wiped a few specks of blood away with her skirt hem before scaling up the wooden ramp and into the dark cramped coop.
If Aunt Pearl hadn’t convinced her husband to let Sarah live with them, there was no telling what would have happened to her or to her daughter. She might not be happy living here, but at least they had a roof over their heads. A place to stay while Ella recovered her health.
Already, the little girl was growing stronger. Staying here was only a temporary situation. One day, she would be able to work full-time again. There would be no more Aunt Pearl, no more hardship and no more chickens.
For all Sarah knew, happiness could be waiting just around the corner.
“Shoo, bird.” She waved her apron at the wiry old hen wisely guarding her nest.
The hen didn’t move, so Sarah flapped her apron harder.
With an insulted screech, the chicken dove at her. Feathers flew everywhere, choking the air.
“Hello? Miss?” a man’s voice called from outside the henhouse. “Thought you should know there’s a hole in the fence. Your birds are out.”
That wasn’t Uncle Milt’s voice. Then who could it be? Surely not one of the neighbors.
She remembered the dark rider she’d spotted on the horizon’s edge, and she plucked a feather from her hair. No. It can’t be him.
She peered through the small door. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the mounted man in her uncle’s yard. With his black hat tipped low over his face, she could only see the cut of his square jaw, dark with several days’ growth. His mouth was an unrelenting line that did not flicker.
The dark rider stood in the yard, so handsome she could not breathe. She brushed a feather from her patched apron before stepping into the sunlight. “Thank you for mentioning it. Goodness, the hens are everywhere.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson. He looked like man and might, like a legend on horseback, as he stared