Montana Bride

Darlin’, you don’t need to prove a thing, he thought, a ribbon of tenderness wrapping around his heart. Just being here was enough. He left her at the stove to unwrap the loaf of bread Evelyn had baked for them. As he sliced, bread knife in hand, he had to admit it was fine sharing the morning with Willa. Her presence changed everything. There would be no more empty mornings spent alone in his cabin. When he came home from work tonight, she would be here to greet him. His long span of lonesomeness had come to an end.

“Evelyn said to make sure you had toast in the morning.” He moved to her side to open the oven door. He liked the sound of her petticoats swishing as he knelt to place the slices of bread on the rack. “She also brought ginger tea to help settle your stomach.”

“That was mighty thoughtful of her.” When Willa spoke, her dulcet alto held him like no other voice ever had. “And thoughtful of you. I can smell it steeping.”

“Here, let me hold the plates for you.” He closed the door and stood, intending to whisk around her but something stopped him. The sight of the ridge of bones along her back. Through the thin cotton of her dress he could count her vertebrae, the poke of her shoulder blades and the faint hint of her ribs.

She wasn’t merely too thin, as he’d thought when he’d gotten a good look at her in the church. She hadn’t been only homeless living out of a barn, but she’d been hungry, too. Very hungry. His hands fumbled with the plates, nearly dropping one. He swallowed hard, hating the circumstances Willa had endured.

But no longer, he vowed, as he watched her load one plate with the bulk of the fluffy scrambled eggs. He would move mountains to provide for her. No wonder her big blue eyes shone somberly. Everything he learned about her broke his heart.

“Is that enough for you?” Her gaze found his, and the look on her face asked a deeper question, one he understood somehow without words.

“Just fine,” he said. “Fact is, I hate eating my own cooking. You could be the worst cook in all the world and I would still be grateful for you in my kitchen.”

“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have taken such care not to burn the eggs.” A hint of humor played along the edges of her lush mouth, just a hint, before a flush of embarrassment crept across her cheeks.

“I highly appreciate that you didn’t.” He winked at her, hoping to make her bashful, hesitant smile bloom into something more.

She lowered her eyes, as if self-conscious, and concentrated overly hard on adding the small remaining portion of eggs onto the second plate. The promise of her smile faded and she seemed to retreat into herself. He tried not to be disappointed. He remembered how hard she shook last night, fearing his touch. The last thing he wanted was to think about what had been done to her by another man, one who’d married her and failed to cherish her.

“Oh. No.” She set the spatula down in the pan with a thunk, covered her mouth with both hands and her eyes widened. She looked a little green around the edges as she spun, racing toward the bedroom. Her skirts swished, her patched shoes beat against the floorboards and the door slammed shut behind her.

He was alone again.

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