Montana Legend
“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 and the children back from shopping in town. Sarah’s stomach tightened because her cherished peace was about to end.
Well, at least she was ready for them. The noon meal was cooked and ready, 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 one last look over her shoulder at the man with the dark Stetson shading his face, she hurried into the kitchen. She truly shouldn’t be watching him so much, it’s just that her eyes kept finding him if he was in sight.
You wish too much, Sarah, for things that cannot be. Was it sadness or regret that lingered heavy and familiar in her chest? She didn’t know which as she pumped water until it ran cool and she discovered she could see Gage through the open kitchen window. Hat tilted at a jaunty angle, he was speaking low and easy to his mare. His big hands held the plow with ease.
What kind of man was he, at heart? she wondered. There was an untamed toughness to him, rugged like the very land itself. Yet he handled the mare with kind words when other men would use the reins as a whip.
Oh, well, it wasn’t her concern, anyway, was it? she reminded herself and turned her back on the kitchen window, winding through the dim, cramped shanty to the back bedroom. The door creaked on its hinges as she peered into the room far enough to see Ella, asleep in her bed. Fierce love burned in Sarah’s heart for her child, who lay lost in dreams, her blond locks curling across the snowy pillowslip like finely spun gold.
Unable to stop herself, Sarah smoothed the crocheted afghan tucked beneath the girl’s chin, remembering a time when Ella had been a baby asleep in her crib and a man had been plowing their first garden patch—her husband.
It was so long ago now that her grief at his death had healed. One day she knew there would be another man in her life she thought to herself as she walked to the kitchen. A man who had enough love in his heart for a woman with a child and responsibilities.
Looking out the kitchen window as she mixed sweet ginger water, Sarah watched Gage Gatlin finish furrowing another row of her garden. The rich earthy scent of freshly turned dirt filled the air as he managed the plow with easy skill. He gripped the handles and clucked to his mare to send her plodding forward. He looked hot beneath the noontime sun.
She had to figure out something to repay him, something a neighbor would do for a neighbor. The thought heartened her as she searched the pantry for sugar and spice, and a jar of winter preserves caught her gaze. That’s what she’d do. She would bake him a cherry pie in exchange for his kindness to her.
Feeling lighter, Sarah rescued the best cup from the top shelf in the kitchen and filled it with cool water. The curtains snapped in the breeze to give her brief glimpses of the man hard at work. She tried not to think about how masculine he looked as she measured sugar and ginger into the cool water.
By the time she swept down the steps and into the side yard, Gage was pulling his lathered mare to a halt. He was breathing hard with exertion. He whipped off his hat and raked his fingers through his dark locks.
“You’re done already?” She handed him the glass.
“I don’t let grass grow under these boots.” He drank all the water in one long draught, the cords in his strong neck working with each swallow. He gave a well-satisfied sigh and held out the glass. “Sweet and cold. Sure hits the spot. Like what I’ve done to your garden?”
“It’s wonderful. I can’t begin to tell you the time and the blisters you have saved me.” She took the empty cup, the glass warm against her fingertips from the breadth of his hand. “I suppose you’ll want to wait for my uncle after this.”
“If you think I plowed your garden to get on your uncle’s good side, then you’d be wrong.” He scanned the fields, the wind tousling his dark hair, looking pirate-tough and lawman-strong. “It seemed the right thing to do is all.”
“So the truth is out. You’re an honest-to-goodness gentleman.” Sarah’s heart fluttered. She couldn’t help the pull of warmth and attraction deep in her stomach. “I didn’t know they still existed.”
“I guess there’s a few of us good guys still roaming the earth.” He winked, and the fine smile lines around his eyes crinkled handsomely. Taking a step back and away from her, he tipped his hat so he could scan the sky. “The sun is nearly straight up. I’d best be on my way. I have business in town.”
“My uncle and his family should be returning soon. Would you like to stay for the noon meal?”
“Nothing against you, Sarah, but your uncle and I are not going to be friendly, be it over a dinner table or not.” He gathered the reins and his mare sidestepped and turned neatly, hauling the disengaged plow to the barn.
Every step he took was a powerful one. The way he walked sure could affect a woman. The straight line of his shoulders and the breadth of his back, his lean hips and long trim legs. He had just enough muscle to make a woman feel tingly all the way to her toes. And yet not too brawny so there was an inborn grace to him, like a cougar prowling his territory.
Sarah dragged in a deep breath, but it didn’t chase away the flutter of attraction in her chest or drain the heat from her face. Besides, Gage Gatlin didn’t have the look of a courting man. He was friendly and polite, that was true enough, but he didn’t catch her gaze and hold it with interest like others had done—before they’d met Ella.
And it wasn’t as if she would attract any man’s attention dressed in her work clothes. This morning battling the chickens and finding their feathers snagged in her braid. And now in the often-patched dress she wore only for messy work, a man would have to have extremely poor eyesight to find her the least bit attractive.
Looking down, Sarah brushed a streak on the front of her skirt. She sat on the steps, working at the dirt stain on her dress. It was vanity, and she knew it, but she couldn’t help the embarrassment heating her face.
Twice now Gage Gatlin had seen her at practically her worst. Goodness, there was more dirt on the other side of her skirt. She looked as if she’d been rolling in the garden patch instead of hoeing it.
Land sakes, she did have bigger problems to face than how she looked to a complete stranger. And that it mattered just a little—all right, maybe a whole lot—bothered her. She was a country girl and always would be.
Anyone could see by simply looking that Gage Gatlin was a man of means. Not that he wore a coat and tie like the men in town with fine jobs and hired servants in their large brick homes, but Sarah could see it all the same. It was in the steel of his spine and the controlled confidence that shone in him like a winter sun.
Ready to go, Gage Gatlin returned, mounted on his fine mare. “I’ll see you around, ma’am.”
“Good luck with my uncle.”
He tipped his hat like a man out of a legend. Her heart flip-flopped once—just a little bit—as she watched him ride away. All myth and dream, disappearing into the vast prairie.
And he was far too fine for her.
Sarah looked after him, although there was nothing but brown prairie and a dust plume where his horse had walked. She’d learned long ago that a person often didn’t get what they wanted. So it wasn’t too hard to let the air out of her chest and her wishes with it.
So, what did it matter if Gage Gatlin was not the man for her? There was someone destined for her, someone kind and caring who could look past the five-year-old dress with the streaks of dirt on it and see the real her. He was out there somewhere, and he’d be worth the wait.
What she’d better do now was get back to the house and check on her daughter. Sarah stood and noticed ten naked toes peeking from beneath her hem.
No, it couldn’t be. She blinked, but her bare feet were still there. She wasn’t wearing her shoes. The whole time Gage Gatlin was here, she’d been exposing her bare feet like some sort of strumpet.
Embarrassment burned through her like a grass fire, and she started to laugh. Gee, he had to notice. Laughing harder, she covered her mouth with her hand to keep from waking Ella. See? That’s what she got for being prideful and fretting about her appearance.
A floorboard squeaked behind her. “Ma, is it dinner yet? I’m awful hungry.”
Ella appeared, thin and pale, in the shadowed hallway. Sarah forgot everything, even a man as handsome as Gage Gatlin, as love for her daughter filled her up. She folded the spindly little girl into her arms and held her tight. It hadn’t been that long ago when she’d feared her daughter would not live. “Are you feeling better, sweetie?”
“Yeah, but I wish I didn’t get so tired all the time.” Ella rubbed a fist over her forehead as if her head still hurt.
Sarah pressed a kiss to her child’s brow. “You’ll feel better after you eat. Come, let me get you some dinner.”
“I wanna drumstick.” Ella collapsed in a chair and propped her elbows on the table edge, her blond hair escaping from her braids in a sleepy tangle. “It’s nice with the cousins gone. Real nice.”
There was no denying how difficult times had been staying in this house, but it wasn’t as if they’d had another choice. Sarah slipped the platter from the warming oven. “We’re grateful to them for letting us stay, remember?”
“I know, I know. But do you have to stay here forever?”
“Not forever, baby, but it is hard to say when we can leave.” Sarah kept her voice light, knowing her girl couldn’t understand how tough the world was for a woman alone.
“As soon as our medical bills are paid off, we’ll get our own place. I promise.” Sarah set the plumpest drumstick on a blue enamel plate alongside two big potatoes. “There’s carrot sticks in the covered bowl in front of you.”
Ella found one and crunched into it. “Ma, could it be a house painted white and pretty?”
“We’ll see.” She set the plate in front of her daughter. “Clean your plate, or I’ll have to string you up by your toes from the maple tree.”
Ella rolled her eyes. “I know, I know, and I’d better drink every drop of my milk or you’ll flog me.”
“I’m glad you know how things run around here.” Sarah reached for the pitcher. “Do you feel up to helping me plant the garden this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Ella said around a mouthful of potato.
“Don’t forget the bread.” Sarah set the glass of milk on the table and nudged the covered basket closer.
A clatter rose in the yard outside. A second later two small boys charged into the house. Pearl followed, carrying squalling Baby Davie on one hip. His twin was silent but red-faced, balanced across Pearl’s other arm.
Sarah hurried to help. “Here, let me take Davie—”
“You’d better take him because I’m worn out.” Pearl thrust the year-old child into Sarah’s arms as if eager to be rid of him. “At least you got the garden turned while I was gone.”
Remember to be grateful. Remember how no other relatives had offered to take you in. “I have lunch ready to set on the table. All you have to do is sit and rest.”
“We ate in town.” Without an apology, Pearl headed back outside to shout at the children to come in and get started on their chores.
Sarah adjusted Baby Davie on her hip and patted his back, trying to comfort him.
With any luck, Pearl had brought the newspaper back from town and it was full of job advertisements.