Montana Legend

“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 at her without saying more.

She’d never been so aware of the dress she wore, thin and faded from wear. Her fingers found another feather in her hair and she tugged it free. “We had a hungry coyote last night.”

“There are tracks. Two sets of them.” His voice was magnificent, too, as he gestured toward the hole in the fence.

Here she was, standing before a dream, and what was she wearing? The ugliest dress in the county. It was clear he was not about to be carried away by the sight of her.

Well, life never promised to be fair or love easy to find.

She brushed at the straw clinging to her hem and knelt in front of the fence.

“Need help?”

“No.”

Leather creaked as the stranger dismounted. He was as tall as he looked. He approached with a slow confident gait, strolling right past her as if she wasn’t there.

Her skin tingled at his nearness. A zing of sensation skipped down her spine, making her aware of this man, so strong and silent. Far too aware. Her blood felt warm in her veins, and she stared intently at the hole in the earth. Could he guess that she was attracted to him?

“I don’t suppose this is the Buchanan spread?”

“No.”

“That’s the way my luck’s been running lately.” He tipped his black hat lower over his eyes. “I’ll need a shovel.”

“A shovel? Oh, I can’t let you fix this.” The sooner he rode away, the faster her reaction to him would fade. She took off her apron and stuffed it into the small hole. “There, this will do for now.”

“Don’t want my help?”

“I don’t know you, sir.”

“Last name’s Gatlin.” His hard mouth softened into a small grin at the corners. “My friends call me Gage. You look alone here. Is this your place?”

“No, this is my aunt’s husband’s farm. She’s busy in the house, and Uncle Milt is out early in the fields.”

She climbed to her feet only to realize there was a dirt stain across the front of her bodice from preparing the garden spot yesterday. She looked like the poor relation she was.

Well, nothing could be done about it now. “What are you doing riding this way, Mr. Gatlin?”

“Looking for my next job.”

She spotted a stray chicken and dashed after it. Mr. Gatlin’s fine-blooded mare snorted in surprise as she whisked past. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah noticed the polished leather of the quality saddle, and the expensive rifle cover strapped beneath the right stirrup. “Your next job? You don’t look like a drifter.”

“And you look like you need some help.” The grin in the corners of his mouth widened a little more as he stood, all power and masculinity.

Making her feel small and plain.

She scooped a hen from the grass at the roadside. When she turned around, he was gone. So, he thought he’d help her, would he? Judging by the quality of his horse and saddle, he didn’t need to trade work for a meal.

So what did he want? Or was he merely being a gentleman? She marched past his horse and deposited the hen in the coop, not sure what to do if Mr. Gatlin was only being kind. She hadn’t been around a kind man in so long—since her husband died—that she’d almost forgotten they truly existed.

By the time she’d caught her third escaped chicken, Gage Gatlin ambled out of the barn carrying a battered shovel.

“Might as well make myself useful. I’m rusty at helping maidens in distress, but I’ll get better with practice.”

“You’re out of practice at shoveling? Or helping a woman?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Why’s that?” She held the squawking chicken against her chest with one hand as she reached for the door latch. “Is there a wife you’re running away from?”

He was at her side in an instant, radiating heat and strength as he opened the door for her. “There’s no wife.”

“I see.” She brushed past him to release the bird.

He nodded toward the south, where the rolling prairie stretched endlessly. “I’m looking for a fellow who’s got a place not far from here. I thought this was the place, but I must have taken the wrong road.”

“You did.” She brushed dirt and chicken feathers from her worn skirt. “I happen to know where that ranch is.”

“Is that so? Then maybe we can make a deal.”

“Why did I know you were going to say that?”

“Because I’m bound and determined to help you out, ma’am.”

“Fine. You fix my chicken fence and I’ll give you the best directions you’ve ever had. Is that what you want?”

“I say it’s a satisfactory deal. I’d best get to work.”

“I have eggs to gather.” She grabbed a basket and hurried through the little chicken yard toward the snug henhouse. Her skirts rustled with her gait, her long braids snapping.

Gage watched her go. She moved like May across the prairie, light and easy on the eyes. And because she wasn’t wearing a petticoat beneath that threadbare dress, he could make out the shape of her legs as she ran. Long, lean, but not skinny. And her hair, as bright as gold, made him glad to be a man. It trailed down her back as rich as sunlight.

There were times he missed having a woman to pull close. Especially a woman like this one.

She disappeared into the coop, and it was too bad. He liked the way she looked, even with the feather stuck in her hair. Her dress was faded and her sunbonnet needed starching, but she was the prettiest female he’d seen in a long while.

He filled in the hole and tamped it down good around the wood post. Without new wire, he couldn’t do better, but it would hold for now. As he climbed to his feet, he couldn’t help but hear angry voices coming from the weather-beaten shanty.

Lived with her relatives, did she? He felt sorry for her as he carried the shovel to the barn and stowed it in the same dirty corner where he’d found it. He knew something about families and anger.

Not that he had much family to call his own anymore. Aside from his little girl, his parents were buried and his brothers and sisters were spread across the West like seeds on the wind. Considering the house he’d grown up in and the marriage he’d had, being alone wasn’t so bad.

The horse shied as he came near.

“Easy girl, I’m not the one who’s angry.” Gage patted the mare’s warm neck. “I told you, you’re safe with me.”

The horse’s ears swiveled. Her skin twitched nervously and not even his touch could soothe her.

Gage’s gaze followed the sounds of anger. In a glance he noticed the shanty’s front steps were loose and the porch boards uneven. The screen door sagged on tired hinges. Before he could decide to step up to the house to try to intercede, the shrill woman’s voice faded into silence.

Troubled, he waited. He could hear a faint humming from inside the chicken coop and soon, there she was, breezing down the ramp, swinging her basket of well-packed eggs. Her worn gray dress swirled around her ankles like music.

Spotting him, she wove around the chickens and through the small gate. “I see you kept your end of the bargain.”

“It’s the best I can do without new wire.” Gage shrugged, snapping clods of dirt from the crumpled garment he’d rescued from the earth. “Here’s your apron. I guess it’s your turn to help me out.”

“With the directions. I had better take a look at the repair you did to the fence. If it isn’t good enough, I just may give you bad directions.”

“I expect good directions as I did a remarkable job.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. Couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but this little slip of a woman made his burdens seem to disappear, if only for a moment.

She knelt to inspect his work, a small smile on her soft lips as if she were holding back more laughter. As if she were taking pleasure in teasing him.

“All right. I guess that will do. It’s the Buchanan land you’re looking for?”

“That’s right, ma’am. I’m expected to arrive this morning. I gave my word.”

“A man of his word, are you? I thought those didn’t exist anymore.” She swept close to snatch the balled-up apron.

For an instant she was near enough for him to see the soft threads of gold in her hair. To smell the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of wood smoke, crisp and clean. She’d lit the morning cooking fire, he’d wager, noticing her delicate hands chapped red from hard work. He felt sorry for her, living in that anger-filled house.

She shook the dirt from her apron in a smooth snap, breaking through his thoughts and calling his attention back to watch her fold the length of calico over her lean forearm.

“You’ll want to head back the way you came,” she said in that gentle way of hers. “Stay left at the first fork you come to in the road. Buchanan’s place is about the fifth ranch you come to. Keep our barn in your sight, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”

“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel too old. I’m not stoop-shouldered yet.”

Old? She looked young—not too young—and easy to look at as she shaded her eyes with one hand. “My name is Sarah Redding.”

He tipped his hat. “Well, Miss Sarah Redding, I’ll round up your chickens and be on my way.”

Sarah couldn’t help the pull of disappointment in her chest. “Miss,” he’d called her. It was a common enough mistake, she supposed, thinking of the several bachelors and widowers who’d been by to call when she’d first arrived at Aunt Pearl’s house last spring.

As soon they’d learned she was not as young as they figured and she had a daughter, they nearly tripped over their feet to leave in a hurry and never returned. And if it hurt, she wasn’t about to admit it or to expect that this man, as appealing as he may seem, would be any different.

And if that were true, she didn’t want him gathering up her aunt’s escaped chickens. “I can catch the hens on my own,” she called after him. “They’re my responsibility and besides, didn’t you give your word? You have places to be.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes to help.”

“Go on, cowboy. It’s my work to do.”

A chicken squawked, flapping to keep out of his reach. He hesitated, straightening to figure out the best thing to do. Didn’t seem right to leave her like this, but she looked determined to be rid of him. Maybe she was one of those independent types, never settling for a husband and marriage.

Or maybe it was him she didn’t want hanging around for too long.

“I’ll be on my way, if that’s what you want, ma’am.” He gathered his mare’s reins, taking comfort in the familiar feel of worn leather against his skin. Something made him hesitate, maybe because she was the most decent woman he’d come across in some time.

Maybe he had no right taking an interest, but it didn’t stop him. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you living with relatives? A pretty lady like you ought to be married.”

“The truth is, I haven’t found the right man. Only inferior ones wind up traveling down my road.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him—not coy or enticing, but gentle and honest. She tilted her head to one side, scattering the gold wisps that had escaped her braid.

And revealing a small white downy feather stuck in the hair above her left ear. The breeze lifted and made it flutter. “Good luck to you, cowboy. I appreciate your help.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He tipped his hat and mounted. The creak of the saddle was the only sound between them and he waited, trying to think of something more to say.

But the truth was, he’d never had much desire to charm the ladies. He was more practiced in keeping his distance from them, not in figuring out how to talk with them. When was the last time he’d been interesting in keeping up a conversation with a woman?

He couldn’t rightly say. Just as he couldn’t rightly explain why his heart ached with her sweetness as the breeze ruffled her skirt and the wisps of hair that escaped from her braids.

He liked the sight of her, faded dress and all.

“By the way, you missed a feather.” He said it kindly as he nudged the mare with his knees and guided the animal with an expert’s ease. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

“What?” Sarah’s hand flew to her head and her fingertips bumped into the feather’s stiff spine. She tugged it out of her hair, but he was already riding away.

Oh, had it been sticking out straight like that the entire time?

Probably. Heat swept across her face. There he goes, the most handsome man who had ever wandered down her road, and what kind of impression did she make? Certainly not one that charmed him to the depths of his soul.

Sarah brushed at the skirt that had been her mother’s. So old, the dyes had faded from the cotton, leaving only light gray. Her hair wasn’t even up yet, she realized, a long braid sticking her mid-back as she rescued an escaped hen. A terrible feeling settled into her stomach. Had she made a fool of herself? Most likely.

Well, today wouldn’t be the day she fell in love with a wonderful man.

She’d long since stopped expecting love to happen twice in her lifetime, but the tiny hope inside her remained.

Maybe tomorrow. A woman could always hope there would be another man riding her way, tall and strong, with eyes the color of the wind.

Over the last rise the Buchanan ranch came into view, or what he figured had to be the Buchanan spread. Because the split-rail fence alongside the road went from well-maintained to tumbling-down.

He ought to have expected it, the way his luck had always been. Still, this was a fair piece of prairie that went on as far as he could see. A slice of heaven for sale right here on the vast Montana prairie.

Gage reined the mare to a stop and looked. Just looked. What a sight. The sun was drifting over the horizon, gaining in brightness, chasing away the last of the night shadows. He couldn’t get enough of these wide-open spaces and it filled him with hope.

Real, honest-to-goodness hope, and that was a hard thing for a practical man like him. A man who’d seen too much of the bad life had in it. But that life seemed a lifetime away as the warmth of the morning seeped through his clothes and into his skin. He didn’t believe that dreams existed. But maybe here he had a chance. To make a permanent home for his daughter’s sake. To find some peace for his.

Maybe.

Looking from left to right, he remembered the description in Buchanan’s letter.

Two whole sections. Two square miles of his own land. Larger than any he’d yet come across. It was something to consider even if neglect hung on the crooked fence posts that leaned one way, then another. How they stood up at all was a wonder.

Gage nudged his mare onto the dirt path and considered the desolate fields surrounding him, fields grazed down to earth and stone. Cattle dotted the pasture and lifted their heads at his approach. Several bawled at him, their ribs visible, suffering from hunger. Good animals, too, and valuable enough—

He swore. Whoever Buchanan was, he was a damn fool.

Turn around, his instincts told him. You’ve looked at better property and kept on riding. Gage knew what he wanted, and this rundown homestead wasn’t it. Yep, he ought to turn around and head south. Look at the land for sale near Great Falls. There had to be a better deal for his hard-earned cash.

He 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.”