Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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touched his knee against the mare’s flank, turning her toward the main road, but a niggling doubt coiled tight in his chest. Something deep within made him hesitate against his better judgment. Maybe it was the haunting beauty of the plains. Or the vast meadows that didn’t hem him in.
Maybe he was just tired of roaming. Gage couldn’t explain it. He simply let the high prairie winds turn him around. He guided the mare down the rutted and weed-choked path while hungry cattle bellowed pitifully as he passed by.
After riding a spell up a slight incline that hid the lay of the land ahead, the road leveled out and Gage stood in his stirrups eager for the first sight of what could be his home. As the ever-present wind battered his Stetson’s brim, he spotted a structure on the crest of the rise, silhouetted by the sun, shaded by a thick mat of trees.
“Get up, girl,” he urged, heels nudging into the mare’s sides, sending her into an easy lope.
The structure grew closer and, as the road curved ’round, it became a tiny claim shanty listing to the south, as if the strong winter winds had nearly succeeded in blowing it over. One entire corner of the roof was missing.
That’s it. Turn around. There was no sense in talking it over with Buchanan. The place was a wreck. The cattle were starving. For all he knew, they might never regain their health.
A wise man would keep on moving.
Now normally he was a wise man, but for some reason the reins felt heavy in his right hand, too heavy to fight them. So, he let the mare continue along the path and reined her to a halt in front of the ramshackle excuse for a house.
The door squeaked open, sagging on old leather hinges. A stooped, grizzled man wearing a faded red cotton shirt and wrinkled trousers limped into sight, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane. “You Gage Gatlin?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” Gage dismounted and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Buchanan.”
The old man braced his weight on his good leg, leaned his cane against his hip and accepted Gage’s hand. His handshake was surprisingly solid for a man so infirm, and Gage felt some sympathy for the man who’d grown too weak and old to care for his land and livestock.
“Pleased to meet you, stranger. You can call me Zeb.” Buchanan repositioned his cane and the hard look in his watery eyes was unflinching. “Now that you’ve seen my place, are you still figurin’ to buy?”
“Don’t know. Trying to decide that for myself.”
Gage studied the shanty. It didn’t look good. The unpainted boards were weathered to black and where boards were missing, Buchanan had used tarred paper as a patch. “I’ve gotta be honest. This place is going to take hard work and a lot of it.”
“It’s rundown, I didn’t lie to you about that.” Shame flushed the man’s aged face. “The land’s good, you keep that in mind, and my herds are fine stock. Don’t look like it, I know, but it was a long winter and I had to make the hay last. Others had the same trouble ’round here. I’ll give you a fair price, that’s for sure.”
A fair price was always something to consider. But still. The house was a disappointment. Barely livable. Gage took a step back, studying the size of it. “This looks like a one-room shanty. The stove stays?”
“I’d throw it in for free.” Zeb perked up, leaning heavily on his cane as he pointed around the battered corner of the house. “Been looking for the right man to come along. The neighbor has pushing me to sell my good animals to him, but he is a rough son-of-a-gun. You—” Zeb paused. “You have horseman’s hands.”
Gage nodded slowly, knowing well what Zeb meant and didn’t say. “Maybe I’ll take a look at your herd.”
“Out yonder. Go ahead and take your time. Reckon seein’ my horses’ll make up your mind one way or the other.”
There was a glint in the old man’s eye, like a promise of good things to come, and it felt infectious. A lightning bolt of hope zagged through Gage as he crunched through tall, dead grass. Couldn’t help expecting to find a good herd of horses to work with. Horses to call his own.
Each step he took through dry thistles made him more certain. He could feel it in his bones as he looked beyond the falling-down fences, sad-eyed Herefords and the remains of a barn, rafters broken in the middle, sagging sadly to the ground. Hope beat within him as he hiked past a gnarled orchard and then froze dead in his tracks.
He was looking at heaven, or the closet part of it he was likely to see.
The brown prairie spread out like an endless table below him, breathtaking and free, in all directions. Unbroken except for the faint line of fallen split-rail fencing and grazing horses, stretching all the way to rugged mountains a haze of purple and pure, glistening white, and close enough to touch. The sun gleamed so bright, it made his eyes water.
He wanted this land. This dream.
A gentle neigh shot through the morning’s stillness. Gage looked over his shoulder and lost his breath at the sight of a little bay filly trotting up to the fence, head held high, mane flying, ears pricked forward.
“Howdy, girl.” He held out a hand so she could scent him and see there was no danger. “You’re a pretty one.”
As she reached her nose over the top rung of the listing fence, he gazed out across the endless meadows to watch heads lift from grazing and long manes flutter in the breeze. He picked out the arched necks of Arabians, the sturdy-lined Clydesdales and hardworking quarter horses. There had to be a hundred of them. Maybe more.
Dozens of breeding mares, he realized, their sides heavy with foal. Most of the herd stayed at a far distance, but several animals trotted close and warily approached, ears pricked, nostrils flaring as they scented him, determining if he was friend or foe.
Negligence hung on them like the dirt on their coats. The filly at the fence nickered for attention. Her sad eyes implored him, as if she were hoping he had food. Her ribs showed plainly through the thick mat of her dirty coat.
Gage took a minute to study her. Good lines, no doubt about it. Underneath all the mud, she’d clean up real nice. He rubbed her nose, and she was trusting enough to lean into his touch. She hadn’t been abused. A damn good sign.
Gage crawled through the fence and ambled close enough to the small group of mares before they bolted, galloping to safety, their tails sailing behind them. Pleasure filled him like the sweet prairie air. They looked like a fine group. There wasn’t a swayback in the lot of them.
You’ve struck pay dirt, cowboy. Gage leaned against the fence and watched the stallion pace around his mares. Watched the mares calm down and return to foraging for food. He felt the old hunger rise in his blood.
A man didn’t get luckier than this.
He stood there for what felt like hours. Soaking in the sunshine and the freedom. He could feel his old life slip from his shoulders like a coat no longer wanted. A new start. Fresh possibilities. Oh, it’d take work—and a lot of it. He wasn’t fooling himself about that—
A sharp chicken squawk interrupted his thoughts. He remembered the pretty country woman and how her simple dress had skimmed her slim hips. Thinking of Sarah Redding made a different hunger rise in his blood, one of longing, one he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He’d surely have to return that chicken. Only because it was the neighborly thing to do.
Chapter Two
S arah mopped her brow and clods of dirt tumbled from her fingers. Her back burned from hoeing for an hour straight, and she’d only turned one row of the acre patch. She loved gardening, but this was her least favorite part. Her back agreed as she sank the edge of the hoe into the stubborn ground and her spine burned.
The drum of steeled horseshoes rang on the road behind her, growing steadily louder, and she didn’t bother to look up. It was probably Aunt Pearl