Montana Legend (Harlequin Historical, No. 624)

by Jillian Hart

  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.”

  “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

  Sarah 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’r
e 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.