by Jillian Hart
"It stayed east of my place, I had a great harvest." Silas Meeks, his fellow player, jumped his red checker across the board, collecting black pieces. "Hey, Gil. Is it true? Are you courting Maebry?"
"What? How did you hear something like that?" He shook his head, guffawing, if only to cover the painful ache in his heart.
"Latimer came in to join our game," Zeke explained. "But we wouldn't let him."
Poor Lawrence. It wasn't his fault he was, well, the way he was. Gil felt sympathetic, since they were both clearly sweet on Maebry. The problem being that Lawrence was sweet on any female in town under forty.
"Yeah, what's the word, Gil?" Carl pulled out his accounts ledger and flipped through the pages. "Are you and Maebry serious?"
"What is with you all?" Gil glanced over his shoulder, straining to catch sight of her in the store. He simply needed to see her, but no luck. The sun dimmed, and all he could make out was the front window display showing off lady's shoes. "Do you really think a gal as pretty as Maebry O'Riley would settle for the likes of me?"
"Well, when you put it that way." Zeke winked, turned his attention to the game and pondered his next move. "Maebry would be foolish if she settled for you."
"Don't I know it?" Humor covered the painful truth. There was something wrong with him, letting his heart fix on a woman he couldn’t have. Maebry had never shown a speck of interest in him, other than the friendliness she showed everyone. "We've worked together for a few months now. She knows me well enough to see faults and all. How can any lady get past that?"
"Exactly," Silas teased, wincing as he lost two checkers to Zeke. "Which is good for me. She doesn't know me yet. Think she'll have me?"
"Nah," Zeke added two checkers to his growing pile. "You're more faulty than Gil, and he doesn't stand a chance."
"Well, now, I disagree. Gil isn't so bad." Carl, a fatherly figure, reached for a pencil thoughtfully. "I'd reckon any number of ladies might think so too."
"Thanks, Carl." Gil took the pencil he offered, initialed the record of purchase and tipped his hat. "I appreciate it, but no woman has tied me down yet. Best to keep it that way."
"I understand, you like to roam free." Carl snapped the ledger closed, grinning easily. He was a kindly man, quiet, stocky but strong from years of lifting hundred and fifty pound sacks of grain in his store. Salt and pepper hair swirled around a thin spot on top where he was beginning to go bald, his angular face lined with laugh lines. Instead of making another friendly joke, his gaze turned serious, as if he somehow understood.
Revealed and not sure that he liked the storekeeper guessing his secret, Gil tipped his hat and headed for the stack of bagged oats. He hefted a bag over his shoulder, resisting the urge to turn around and check the mercantile windows one more time. It's impossible and you know that, he told himself as he headed out the door.
Something icy dove beneath his hat brim and brushed his cheek. He looked up. Snow. It hailed toward the ground in fat, thick flakes, tap, tap, tapping in every direction. The street turned white all around him.
"This is crazy!" A beautiful and familiar voice called from across the street. Maebry latched her wagon's tailgate and dusted the snow off her gloves. She peered at him from the depths of her hood, tattered and fraying in places, but her secondhand clothing could not dim her brightness. She shone like a beam of spring sunshine even in the darkening storm. "It's May!"
"It's Montana," he answered, somehow getting down the stairs without falling. Good thing his feet had found their way on his own, because all he really noticed was her. "You'd better head home before the roads get bad."
"Just what I was thinking." She spun on her heels, swishing away from him. Willowy and petite, she lifted her skirts, hopped up into the wagon and dusted off the snowy seat.
Nothing seemed to bother her. Not one thing. He absently bumped into something—the side of his own wagon—and dumped the bag of oats into the bed. The veil of snow threatened to cut off his view of her, but the wind gusted, allowing him one last look as she took the reins in her slender hands. Little wisps of sunshine blond hair tumbled down from her up knot to curl around her delicate, oval face. Emerald green eyes flashed as she laughed and raised one gloved hand to him in a graceful little wave.
"Thanks again for being my pretend beau," she called out as her wagon rattled by, drawn by one of the ranch's horses. "It may have been brief, but it was the best relationship I've ever had."
"Me, too." His heart took another wrench. Judging by her easy-going, friendly manner, she had no clue. Not a single one. He watched her roll away. "Get home safe!"
She was far enough away that he wasn't sure his words had reached her, but she fluttered her fingers in a little wave before the snow storm closed around her in a curtain of white, stealing her from his sight.
Something tugged on his sleeve. Casey, his bay gelding. Velvet lips clamped firmly on his coat cuff, dark eyes mildly reprimanding. Casey ran a tight ship, and he expected his master to do the same.
"All right, I'm done mooning." Gil scrubbed the horse's nose and jolted into action, pounding up the steps to the boardwalk, leaving a trail in the quickly accumulating white stuff. He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder one more time, wishing.
Wishing, when he had sacks of feed to bring home before this turned into a full-force blizzard. Tucking away his tender feelings for Maebry O'Riley, he buried them deep. Some things were simply not meant to be.
Chapter Two
Stupid weather! Maebry swiped snow out of her face as she squinted at the disaster that had befallen the wagon. The ranch horse glanced over his shoulder at her, arched a horsy brow and sent her a worried look through the sideways falling snow.
"Phil, why are you looking at me like that?" She gave the wagon wheel a good hard kick. That was the old family rule. When frustrated, a good whack with your foot to whatever wasn't working never did any harm. Except to her toe, which protested painfully from smacking into the metal rim. "It's not my fault we're good and stuck."
Phil huffed, blowing air out of his nose.
"Okay, maybe it is a little," she admitted.
The horse stomped his foot, as if there was no maybe about it. Snow clung to his black mane giving him a frosty look. In fact, he was turning white all over, and so was she. Brrr. She wrapped her arms around herself, but nothing could stop the knife-sharp cut of the cruel northwestern wind as it sliced through her old coat.
"What I wouldn't give to be home right now in the toasty kitchen." Maebry took a step and felt the half-frozen mud clamp hold of her shoe. Ew. She tugged it free and frowned at the gooey mire of brown stuck to the sole. That would have to be washed off. "I can almost hear the tea kettle whistling on the stove. Wood crackling in the fire. Smell my beef stew simmering, my fresh bread baking."
As nice of an image as it was—and it did warm her up some—now her stomach decided to rumble. Great. She rolled her eyes, or she would have if snow wasn't driving into her face and she had to blink too hard to roll. Flakes clung to her eyelashes, smacked her cheeks, thudded on her nose. She squinted at the snowy wagon. No way was she getting the wheels free from the half-frozen mud, which had congealed to a nice sticky, paste-like mixture.
"Problem solved," she told Phil, taking a step toward him. "I'll just—"
She heard a pinging sound, her foot came free and icy air breezed between her toes. Oh, no! She glanced down, already knowing what she'd see. Her right shoe was sitting behind her all by its lonesome, stuck in the mud.
"Don't give me that look," she warned Phil. "This is my only pair of shoes."
Phil's brows arched higher, clearly doing his best not to utter a horsy laugh.
"Okay, so it is kind of funny." She stood there on one foot like a flamingo, wondering if she dared to try hopping back to her shoe. She tilted her head, considering. What if she hopped right out of her left shoe? Then where would she be?
A faint squeak of a wheel penetrated the chorus of wind and snow. She stra
ined her ears, leaning into the gusts, hearing the jingling quality of harnessing. Yes! It was Gil on his way back to the ranch. She was saved. She bit her bottom lip, considering. Not that she would be saved from humiliation when he saw her standing on one foot like a lost bird, but maybe she could reward him with baked goods for fetching her shoe for her.
That put a grin on her face and a skip to her pulse. She twisted toward the road, searching the shadows for the first sight of him, for the hard, unyielding line of his shoulders, the no-nonsense silhouette of his hat and his hallmark, steely square jaw. Already looking forward to whatever amusing thing he might say with that butter-soft rumble to his smoky baritone, her pulse kicked up a crazy rhythm.
As she watched more eagerly than she cared to admit, a shadow did emerge from the white-gray curtain of the storm. Instead of a Stetson, she recognized the jolly shape of a bowler hat. Those slumped, almost straight shoulders and that handlebar mustache could only belong to one man. And it wasn't Gil. She tilted her head, desperate. Why wasn't it Gil? Her forehead scrunched up, her jaw tensed up, she let out a little gasp. Why did it have to be Lawrence Latimer?
"Miss Maebry." He pulled his donkey to a stop beside her. Sitting up straight in his cart, he tipped his hat, always a gentleman. His gaze went from her stockinged foot to the lone shoe in the road. "Allow me to come to your assistance, dear lady."
"Uh—" That was the only answer she had, the only word that tumbled off her tongue because her brain had entirely shut down in either shock or horror. She didn't know which. Maybe both, she considered, biting her lip harder.
"Let me fetch that for you." Lawrence wrapped his reins around the whip handle and hopped to the ground. "What are you doing out of your wagon in this weather? Oh, I see your wagon is stuck."
"Stuck," Maebry agreed helplessly. Just like she was. Stuck with him and not knowing how to begin to tell him no thank you, she'd rather stand like this until the rapture. "Perhaps you'd best get back in your cart. I wouldn't want you to get bogged down, too."
"Don't you worry, I kept high and center. I'm quite the experienced driver." He swaggered over to her shoe, bent to scoop it up most gallantly, only to be forced to tug a few times before it came free. "You popped off every single button. You'll need new shoes, I'm afraid."
"So I see." She reached out to snatch it from him, wishing more than anything it had been Gil who'd stopped, and feeling sorry for this man whose brown puppy-dog eyes shone with the hope to please. He gallantly knelt before her, and alarm shot through her. He was too close. Way too close. "What are you doing?"
"Putting on your shoe. A little like Cinderella, don't you think?" A question etched into his face as he stared up at her, ignoring the beat of snowflakes catching on his eyelashes. He bent his head to the task of upending the shoe and shaking any accumulated snow out of it. "You have two holes in your sock, Maebry. This shoe has been patched so often, the patches have patches. If anyone is in need of a prince charming, it's you."
And she suspected what Lawrence was really saying is that he was the one in need of a Cinderella, of someone to fill the loneliness and emptiness in his life. Her heart twisted in sympathy, because she knew how that felt.
"Really, that's kind of you, Lawrence." She hiked up her chin, taking care to keep her voice gentle. "But I don't need a prince charming. I'm the kind of girl who puts her own shoe on, thank you, so please hand it over."
"Oh, if you're sure." His face fell. Disappointment etched onto his long, narrow face for one moment, as he thought it all over, then shrugged sheepishly. "Guess I already knew that, especially now that you're with Gil and all. That must be why I like you so much. You're independent, and that's a strength in a woman as beautiful as you are."
Stop already, she thought, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Really, what did it take? He'd already gotten the hint, in fact he understood her quite well, but did that stop him? No. She rolled her eyes heavenward, batting her eyelashes against the constant barrage of snowflakes, remembering to count to ten.
"I should help you with your wagon." Lawrence straightened his narrow shoulders, handing over her shoe. A thin note of hope rang in his words and hitched both eyebrows up in big, hairy arches. "Or perhaps I could offer you a ride?"
"No, thank you." Maebry clenched her back teeth, a bit frustrated. He had persistence, she had to give him that. "It was really nice of you to stop and offer assistance. Very gentlemanly."
"Well, I try." He knocked snow off the narrow brim of his bowler, looking her straight in the eye, for he was barely an inch taller than she was. "Guess I'll see you at the Montgomery's party, but keep me in mind. You know, if things don't work out with you and Gil. I mean, I have enough money to buy out your contract with Maureen, just something you might want to know."
"Oh. Well, Maureen won't cash me out, she's made that terribly clear." Her throat closed, cutting off her words. No one but Maureen—and she suspected Maureen's daughter Aumaleigh—knew the reason she was in such insurmountable debt. It wasn't enough that she was an indentured servant to Maureen, but she'd borrowed money too. Money that would take almost a decade of daily work to pay off.
Thinking of her little sister, her chin hiked up. It was worth it. "You are truly kind to stop, Lawrence. We'd both better get home before we freeze into icicles."
"Right." Lawrence planted his feet. "At least lean on me while you put on that shoe. No lady falls on my watch."
"Well, I—" She hesitated, not knowing what to say, when a dark looming shadow broke free from the veil. He dominated the storm, emerging from it as if the fury of wind and snow dared not touch him. Her pulse skipped a beat or two—likely from surprise, she thought, and not anything else like, say, complete and total happiness at seeing him.
"I'll take it from here, Latimer." Gil's deep tone held friendliness, but the low notes rang with an unspoken warning. "Thanks for stopping to help."
"S-sure. My pleasure." Lawrence paled again, terribly small when compared to the hulking cowboy. The little man tipped his bowler cordially and backed away toward his cart. "Couldn't drive by and leave a lady in distress."
"Right." Gil tipped his hat cordial but remote-looking, as expressionless as a rock. Hard to figure out what he was thinking.
Probably wondering why I'm standing here like a heron, she thought as Lawrence disappeared into the storm. Embarrassed, she lifted her stockinged foot to try and stick it into the shoe she held.
"Here, let me." Suddenly Gil was there, his big body blocking her from the wind. His gloved hand ripped the shoe from her grip and he knelt before her. "I can't have you falling over."
"I was never in danger of falling over."
"Still, it's my cowboy's duty to help those in need."
"I think that means the hungry or the downtrodden." Her face flamed, because he'd hit a sore spot. Aware of the worn state of her clothes, she slipped her foot into her shoe, held so steady in his hands. It felt terribly intimate somehow, personal and close. Perhaps because she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Not that she wanted to acknowledge any feelings she might have—say, feelings that went beyond a mere passing crush on the man. Her chin hiked up. "I'm hardly either."
"Well, you do have two holes in that stocking." Gentle that tone, caring. His hat hid his face as he lowered her foot to the ground.
Her cheeks flamed, but his gentleness helped ease her humiliation. He'd worked at the ranch since February. He knew about her situation, that she was Maureen's indentured servant and earned no wages. Everything she earned went straight to paying off her debt. She'd prepared and served his meals every day, along with the rest of the ranch hands, so her life was no secret to him. Perhaps it was the understanding—and the embarrassment of being so destitute—that made her eyes sting.
"I know, I've been feeling those holes in my sock all morning long." Humor, she thought. That's what she needed. Gil felt extraordinarily close, even as he stood up, rising to his impressive, towering height. She could not afford t
o let down her guard. "Guess I have some darning to do tonight."
"Seems like that stocking has been patched up one too many times." The caring in his voice reached out to her, made her look up when she wanted to look away, made her lean in just a fraction of an inch when she'd be smart to leap away.
"Yes, and exactly what were you doing looking that closely at my stocking?" She hiked up an eyebrow, trying to go back to the usual, casual banter that had always naturally existed between them. Feared that she couldn't. "Perhaps you could answer that?"
"Hey, I couldn't help myself." The hint of his smile returned. "You have a pretty foot."
"Seriously? You're going to try and charm me? You're no better than Lawrence."
"Maybe, maybe not." The faint smile vanished from his rugged face, the corners of his mouth tipped downward. He was serious, there was no more light-heartedness between them as he stepped back into the snow, disappearing into it. When he spoke, his voice came muffled by the storm, drifting to her on a wintry wind. "I know it doesn't look like it now, but I've been really poor too."
"When?" Her forehead crinkled, her chest tugged with surprise and concern. Gil had hired on after George Klemp was fired. Gil was second in command at the Rocking M, so capable and obviously successful at what he did. He had one of the nicest horses of all the hired men. "It had to be long ago."
"After my folks died when I was ten, I lived in an orphanage for a couple of years." Matter of fact, those words, holding no emotion.
She wished the storm wasn't between them, that she could see his face, read what he wasn't saying in his eyes. She hadn't known this about Gil. In fact, she knew very little about him. She'd rarely been alone with him before this. There was always someone else around in the Rocking M kitchen or on the ranch, or even in town.
"I'm sorry, Gil. That had to have been devastating." She shivered as the wind buffeted her, penetrating the layers of her clothing, chilling her to the skin. "My da died when I was thirteen. Still had my mother, but she remarried soon after."