Montana Legend. Jillian Hart
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pretty ladies, Pa.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“I just had to be sure.”
He chuckled, not one bit fooled by her sly innocence. “You know I’m not the marrying kind.”
“You married my ma.”
“And I could marry some other woman, is that what you think?”
“Sure. A girl needs a ma. Mrs. McCullough just said so. What if she’s right? I reckon she could be.”
There was too much hope in those sparkling eyes, and it troubled him. “Lucky for you I’m an exceptional father.”
She shook her head. “Yeah, but you can’t sew.”
“What if I learn?”
That earned a giggle and effectively ended the conversation. He breathed a sigh of relief. Settling down was the right step to take for Lucy’s sake, but that didn’t mean he had to find her a mother. The thought of taking a wife again—
He shuddered all the way to his soul. Once he’d been carried away by what he thought was love. But in time it had crumbled to dust.
The ride was a pleasant one across a prairie awakening to spring. Birds fluttered about, gathering makings for nests. And a few fat jackrabbits darted across the road, daring to escape their warm warrens. Lucy remained quiet during the ride to their land that spread out for miles.
He showed her all the horses, hungry and half wild, that dotted the fallow fields, unable to hold back his excitement. His dreams were so close he could taste them.
“These are all ours?” Lucy hopped down to poke her hand through the fence and rub a filly’s velvet nose. “Every single one?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Sure is!” Lucy gazed with wonder at the large herd. “They look so sad.”
“They’ve got us now. We’ll feed them and make them happy again. It will be a big job. Do you think we can do it?”
Lucy tilted her head to one side, pursing her mouth as she considered. “I’m glad we live here, Pa. Because I think these horses needed us to take care of them.”
“That’s the way I see it, too.”
So far, so good. His dream for Lucy was taking shape. He’d put in corrals, leave the far fields for grazing, build stables all along the rise—
“Pa? That’s our house? Are we gonna live there?”
“I figure I can have a new house up in a bit.” Gage knuckled back his hat and watched her carefully. “One that’s good and strong with enough room for the two of us. Would that be all right with you?”
“As long as it has a veranda. ’Cuz ladies like to sit on them.”
“If that’s important to you, then it’s a deal. In a month I’ll have us a new little house with a nice wide porch.”
“With a swinging bench. The kind ladies like. And we gotta have flowers. Lots and lots of them. We won’t get anybody nice if all we got is weeds.”
“If you have your way, this place will be so fancy, women will come from miles away, flocking around us, proposing and fainting and all sorts of nonsense.”
“Oh, Pa.” Lucy flicked one braid behind her thin shoulder, done arguing.
Thank heaven.
She tiptoed up the front steps, the aged boards groaning beneath her weight. “Are we gonna sleep in here? It looks dirty.”
“I figure we’ll stay a few more nights at the inn. Mr. Buchanan is busy packing up and needs a day to move out. First thing tomorrow we can start fixing this place.”
“It’s gonna take a lot of fixin’.” She slipped her hand in his—so much trust. “You’re gonna make it real nice, aren’t ya, Pa?”
“You bet.”
“Good. Can I go pet the horses again?”
“Sure thing.”
It was a pleasure to watch her traipse down the weed-strewn path. Little and reed-slim, filled with such important hopes.
He was all she had in the world, and he didn’t want to let her down.
Maybe on these high Montana plains, things would fall their way.
Chapter Three
“I t’s gonna be trouble, that I can guarantee you.” Seated at the kitchen table, Milt slurped the last of the coffee from his cup. “Heard in the saloon last night that Buchanan sold his land to some drifter. For nothin’ more than a song.”
Sarah heard Pearl exhale in frustration. She didn’t know what had gone on with old Buchanan, but she knew her uncle. Milt wasn’t a man of high moral fiber.
Half listening, she finished wiping dry the last of the baking dishes and cracked the oven door to check on the pies. Golden and bubbling. Perfect. She donned the oven mitts and carried the pie plates to the windowsill to cool.
“Surely not to a drifter!” Aunt Pearl was beside herself. “We can’t have someone like that for a neighbor. What was the old man thinking?”
“Hard to say, and after all I done for him. All I know is that no drifter is gonna take what’s mine.” Milt’s chair screeched against the wood floor as he pushed away from the table. “Sarah, you bring me out a slice of that pie when it’s cool enough to cut.”
She nodded, turning her back as she put away the mixing bowl. A chill curled around her spine and she shivered. What did Milt mean? Would he cause trouble for Gage Gatlin?
Gage’s image filled her thoughts—tough, capable, everything a Western man should be. By the look of him, he could handle Milt.
Then again, it never hurt to have a little warning just in case. Sarah considered the four pies cooling on the sill of the now open window.
“Ma, I’m ready.” Ella deposited Baby Davie into his settle. “Got my shoes on and everything.”
“Good. Help me pick which pie looks the best.”
“That one.” Ella pointed. “Oops. I gotta find my sunbonnet.”
“Quick, before Aunt Pearl discovers something else she wants done.” Sarah slipped the chosen pie into the prepared basket. Why was she so jumpy? Surely not over the prospect of seeing Gage Gatlin again. And where had the pie cutter gone to?
She yanked open the top drawer. There. She cut Milt a generous piece of still steaming pastry and set that in the basket, too.
“It’s a waste to welcome a drifter as a neighbor.” Pearl appeared with the ironing basket on her hip. “I hope you’re not taking that extra pie to him.”
“He’s a horseman, not a drifter.”
“A horseman? You mean a wrangler? Or one of them hired men paid to clean out barns?” Pearl wrinkled her nose. “Either way, he won’t be here long. Not if Milt has anything to say about it.”
Sarah held her tongue and headed for the door. “Do you need anything from town?”
“A spool of brown thread. Milt tore the knee in his trousers again. Don’t dawdle too long. I need you to get supper tonight.”
“I’ll be back in time. Ella, are you ready?”
“I found it.” The little girl breezed through the small, cramped front room dragging her sunbonnet by the strings. “Are we gonna cut through the fields?”
“It’s nicer that way.” Sarah let the screen door bang closed behind them, grabbed a spare shawl, and tied on her bonnet. The