Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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the table set, the floors swept and the beds made—and all ahead of time. Not even Milt could find fault with her today. Satisfied, she wrestled the hoe from the stubborn ground.
“Hello again,” a man’s voice called from behind her, as rich and deep as a midnight sky.
Could it be? Sarah dropped the hoe, squinting against the bright sun to see the man silhouetted, tall on his horse, his Stetson tipped at a friendly angle.
“Mr. Gatlin. I’m surprised to see you again.”
“Look what I found.” His horse stepped forward, bringing him out of the sun’s glare, and he gestured toward the white chicken tucked in the crook of his left arm. “I assume this is yours.”
“One went missing this morning.” She bounded forward, eager to relieve him of his burden, and found herself standing in his shadow, close enough to see the texture of his unshaven jaw. A shiver passed through her, wondering what it would be like to lay her hand there.
He leaned forward in his saddle and bent close to hand her the hen. And as she reached up, their fingers brushed. He was like sun-warmed rock and she went up on tiptoes, her wrist brushing the soft downy hair on his forearm.
“Do you have her good and tight?” he asked, the rumble of his voice wrapping around her, moving through her.
Breathless, she managed to nod. The bird flapped and squawked as Sarah tucked it snugly against her apron, but she was hardly aware of anything as her heart tumbled, a strange falling sensation she’d never felt before.
Gage straightened in his saddle, adjusting his hat with ease. “She was scratching in the grass near the property line fencing. Since your hens escaped this morning, I figured she had to be yours.”
“I thought that hungry coyote got her.” Sarah took a step back. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Gatlin.”
“My pleasure. Least I can do for your help this morning. I found Buchanan’s spread just fine. Fact is, it’s my land now.”
“You purchased it? I can’t believe he finally sold it. He’s been trying to for as long as I’ve lived here.” Feathers flew as the chicken in her arms struggled. “Excuse me. I’d better put her in the pen with the others.”
Gage tipped his hat in answer, struck again by the sight of her. Sarah Redding was a good-looking woman, sure as rain, and made a pleasing sight as she dashed through the shade of the house. Feathers flew in her wake, and her dress snapped around her slim ankles. Her sunbonnet hung down her back, drawing his gaze to the dip of her small waist.
No doubt about it—a darn pretty sight.
What was a woman as fine as her doing here on this sorry-looking spread? He had to wonder. Living with relatives barely etching out a living, by the looks of things. And working damn hard herself, judging by the abandoned hoe at the end of one long overturned row. Dismounting, he considered the long acre of unturned dirt. That just wasn’t right for one woman to do all that hard work by hand.
He lifted the hoe and felt the handle worn smooth by time and use. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked at the pad of her feet in the earth behind him. “This is a mighty big piece to furrow by hand.”
“I know, since I tilled it last spring, too.” She took the garden tool from him as if the thought of all that backbreaking work didn’t trouble her. “If you’ve purchased Mr. Buchanan’s land, then that makes you our neighbor.”
“It sure does.”
“Did Buchanan tell you about the water problem?” She wiped a stray chicken feather from her skirt with the sweep of her hand.
It was hard not to notice the delicate shape of her fingers as she pulled at her sunbonnet strings, tugging the calico bonnet up her back and over her head, covering her golden hair.
He returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. “I checked the wells myself. They’re deep enough not to run dry in summer.”
“That’s true.” She leaned on the hoe. “I thought you were seeing Mr. Buchanan for a job. Had I known you were buying the place, I would have said something.”
“What’s the problem? Has it got something to do with the creek?”
“So you noticed that?”
“Hard to get anything by me.” He tipped his hat to her, his lopsided grin dizzying. “They don’t call me the toughest horseman this side of the Rockies for nothing.”
“You’re going to take back the creek?”
“It’s mine, and the law is the law.” Gage considered the garden patch again and the pretty slip of a woman standing beside it. “What’s wrong with your uncle that he won’t plow for you?”
“I’ve got to earn my keep, and he only has one set of workhorses. They’re for the fields, not for working the garden.”
“We’ll see about that. I’ll be right back.” He led his mare away by the bit, striding as easy as you please, kicking up dust with every step he took.
He disappeared around the side of the house, and Sarah released a pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The toughest horseman this side of the Rockies, was he? He sure looked it. He was powerful enough to make her pulse skip crazily. Man enough to make her wish. Just wish.
See there? There she went again, hoping for what was as rare as hen’s teeth.
He’s not interested in you. How could he be? She was a widow with a stack of medical bills and a child to provide for. A woman down on her luck and with little to offer a man. Gage Gatlin was handsome enough. He could probably have any woman he wanted. A woman of means and beauty. There were surely enough of those types of ladies in town, and Sarah knew she couldn’t hold a candle to the lot of them.
She dusted a streak of dirt from her skirt. No, a man like Gage Gatlin wouldn’t be interested in a woman like her.
Time to get back to work. She gripped her hoe, the smooth wooden handle warm from the sun, and lifted it high. Down it went, striking into the earth. Metal clinked as it hit a rock and the impact recoiled up her arms. As she worked the hoe deep into the dirt, the blister on her thumb ached.
“Whoa, there. What do you think you’re doin’?” Gage returned, leading his mare hitched to Milt’s small plow. “I figure this won’t take long, so just step back and rest a spell.”
“But—”
His back was to her as he looped the long thick reins around his neck and dug the plow’s metal tooth into the ground.
He was no stranger to work, and she had to admire the way his muslin shirt stretched over his broad shoulders as he handled the plow. The wind battered the shock of dark hair tangling below his collar—longer than was proper, but it seemed to fit the rough, raw image he made, a lone man against the endless prairie and sparkling sky.
And what was she doing? Wasting time standing idle while he worked? Goodness, he’d already completed one long row. Swiping off his hat, he tunneled his fingers through his dark locks, then glanced at her, his smile slow and easy.
“Does it meet with your approval, ma’am?”
Oh, his Western drawl was honey-sweet and made her chest flutter. She did her best to hide it and to answer politely, not like a woman interested. “Just fine, Mr. Gatlin. How can I thank you?”
“There’s no need, as we’re neighbors now. I might be needing a favor in return one day.” He repositioned the plow, making a second row. Muscles bunched beneath his cotton shirt, and sweat beaded his brow as he worked.
A favor, huh? She couldn’t imagine what. Plowing was hard work, so how was she ever going to help him in return? She wasn’t used to being beholden to a neighbor—and a handsome stranger at that.
Well, there was work always waiting to be done. She’d best get to it. After