by Jillian Hart
All she could see was Seth Gatlin, limned by the sun. He was big enough to take up the entire sky when he stood. He looked down at her and handed her the wet cloth.
“Ought to be dry enough for the pitch.” He nodded toward the covered crock.
She uncapped it and handed it to him, the scent of pine resin sharp in the air. Watching him work was like a gift. She liked the way his broad hands spread pitch across the crack in the boards where the chimney stones and the wood met.
His brows furrowed with concentration, and his firm mouth flattened into a straight line. The wind tossed dark locks of his hair over his brow and caught the brim of his hat.
The Stetson went flying down the slope of the roof and tumbled over the edge.
“I’ll get it!” Without thinking, Linnea tore down the ladder, her skirts flaring and billowing as the wind gusted hard enough to show her drawers.
Good thing Seth was on the roof and not on the ground.
Blushing, grabbing her skirts with one hand, she ran after his hat with the other. It wasn’t easy. Layers of snow remained frozen beneath, as the top layers melted, making running a slick business. Her feet kept trying to slide out from beneath her as she half ran, half stumbled toward the barn.
Just out of her reach, the hat rolled end over end, pushed by the playful wind.
“Forget it, Linnea. It’s not worth a twisted ankle,” he called out as he climbed down the ladder.
“I can get it, if this wind will just—” She reached out and a powerful gust knocked the brim away from her fingertips. She smothered a chuckle and kept going.
Water splashed behind her. She looked surprised to see that Seth was gaining ground, running steady and powerfully, and more striking than anything she’d seen. Not even the wild mustangs could hold a candle to the way he covered the ground.
She leaped to catch the hat, but the wind spun it away from her, in a completely different direction. She tried to stop and skidded out of control.
“Let me fetch it,” he told her. “I don’t want you hurt.”
“I’m not giving up now.” She was laughing, and then he was chuckling, a rich melted-chocolate sound that drove the loneliness from the plains and from her heart.
Stumbling, Linnea dashed onto the road and let Seth overtake her. He was laughing, too, and it was slowing him down. The wind sputtered and sent his Stetson wheeling down the puddled road.
And into the path of an oncoming horse and rider.
The horse neighed in protest as the hat wobbled to a stop in front of its dainty hooves. The dark-cloaked rider, hood gathered low, managed a disgruntled frown.
It was Ginny McIntyre.
Linnea’s laughter died. The warmth in her heart faded like the land before a sudden frost. Shame filled her, a shame there was no cure for.
“Seth,” Ginny said stiffly. “There’s a problem and you are needed at home. Right this minute.”
Linnea could feel the other woman’s disapproval, and like a cloud before the sun, she felt small and plain. This was just what she needed. To be seen running and laughing with a man—married or not. Think of what the gossips would make of this.
The happiness slipped away. A chill wrapped around her. She stared hard at the ground while Seth retrieved his fine Stetson. The hat was marked with wet patches and bent on one side of the brim.
“I’ll be along shortly,” Seth answered slowly as if he, too, could feel that something was wrong. “Go on back home, Ginny, and I’ll be there. Got a couple of shingles I have to nail down now that I’ve got my hat back.”
“I’ll wait.” Her chin lifted stubbornly, her gaze sharp as a blade on Linnea’s face.
Heat flamed her cheeks, and she couldn’t think of a single thing to say in her defense. Nothing could make it right. She’d learned that from hard experience.
Right now, as Seth swept bits of ice from his hat, he wasn’t looking at her with judging eyes, because he still must not know the truth about her. When he did, he’d never offer her a ride to town. Never show her his quiet, dazzling smile.
So she did the only thing she could do. She headed toward the house, hating the silence that followed her. Stumbling, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her, she finally made it to the front porch and flew through the door.
What would Ginny say about her? Linnea didn’t have to guess. She had no doubt that if she pulled back the curtains she would see Ginny leaning over to whisper in her brother’s ear.
“Linnea, is that you already? It is exciting the major is fixing our roof!”
“We are fortunate.”
“Your feet are wet, dotter.” Mama bustled from the kitchen, cradling a stoneware cup. “Here, I have tea ready. I knew you would go wading through the deepest puddles. Sit down and warm up before you catch a chill.”
“Yes, Mama.” Linnea took the steaming tea and eased onto the floor, close to the fire.
She took off her wet boots and set them on the hot hearthstones to dry. She jumped at the sound of Seth’s footsteps on the ceiling directly overhead.
She knew what Ginny had told her brother. How could she face him? How could she return his shirts and ask for his money?
“Is everything all right?” Mama asked, always able to see what was important.
“Everything is fine. Just the way it should be.” And it was true. The dreamy part of her might not accept it, but the sensible side of her did.
The fire popped in the grate. Mama’s rocking chair squeaked as she settled into the cushions. With nimble fingers she gathered up her new wool and needles and began casting on stitches. “Major Gatlin must be a rather tall man, taller than my Olaf. Tell me, is he handsome?”
Oh, Mama. Linnea cringed, knowing exactly where her mother was going with this. “I’m afraid the major is quite unfortunate.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s terribly ugly, the poor man. He’s pockmarked. He has a huge nose and long sallow face.”
“I do not believe it. What a shame! And with that resonant voice.”
“He’s so homely. That must be why he isn’t married at his age.”
“Oh? How old do you suppose he is?” Mama’s fingers hesitated as she listened to the pause in Seth’s hammering. “He cannot be much older than you.”
“His voice may sound young, but he’s at least fifteen years my senior.”
“Now I hear the lie in your voice, young lady.” She resumed her work, talking over the comforting click-click of her needles. “It seems you have answered my question after all.”
“There’ll be no man for me, Mama, and you know it. Not even a man like the major.”
It was only the truth. There was no denying it. No sense in trying to daydream it away. Seth Gatlin would never want a woman like her.
* * *
Ginny’s silent anger lay like a cold frost over the warm parlor. It had drained the taste from the chicken and dumplings she’d served for supper. And now, as darkness fell and the lonely night hours stretched ahead of him, Seth didn’t think he could stomach more.
He closed his book and carried it to the kitchen table. The day had been long enough. Maybe he ought to spend what remained of the evening alone.
The door hinges squeaked softly in the corner of the parlor. One lamp’s meager light, turned low to conserve kerosene, created shadows that hid Ginny as she closed her son’s bedroom door.
“Jimmy’s whiskey is still in the back of the pantry, if that’s what you’re looking for.” Cold and empty, her words.
Seth winced and stilled his hand on the doorknob. “I need to check on my stallion. Make sure he’s settled for the night.”
“Oh.” She eased into the orange glow made by the fire, the shadows licking at her skirt ruffles. “I can put on fresh coffee to warm you for when you return.”
“That won’t be necessary.” He lifted his wool jacket from the hook and shrugged into it. “Thought we’d come to an understanding about this. I’m not here to be waited o
n. Take time to relax in front of the fire before turning in.”
“Seth?”
His hand stilled on the knob. The dark night called to him, but he could feel Ginny’s need trying to wrap around him like a child’s desperate grip. “What is it?”
“I know you’re here to help me. I’ve got no one else. The McIntyres have washed their hands of me. But I have to say this even if it drives you away.”
He took a step closer, resigned. He’d wanted to avoid a discussion, but it looked like there would be no escape. Might as well face it now. “What do you need to say?”
“I want you to keep away from that Holmstrom woman.”
“You mean Linnea.”
“I saw how the two of you were laughing.”
“We were chasing my hat.”
“I know what I saw.”
“You saw wrong.” He felt the weight on his shoulders double, the burden in his heart become heavier than lead. “Don’t make me talk about them. Don’t make me go back there. My time for love is past.”
“Not if you’re looking for a woman’s comfort without marriage.” Ginny’s chin shot up, and venom wrung all the prettiness from her face. “I know how it is with a man. Like a bull in a field of cows—”
“Put it aside, Ginny. Your husband deserted you and took another woman to his bed. Don’t fire your anger with him at me or anyone else.”
“But Linnea—”
“She’s not your problem, Ginny. Providing for your son is.” Seth headed out into the night, his anger hot as a well-stoked fire.
He could feel his sister’s pain, and while he’d never been abandoned, he had lost the love of his life. He knew something about how much the heart could hurt. How it bled. How it would never be the same.
Had he made a fool of himself with Linnea Holmstrom today? Probably. Feeling the heat of Linnea’s touch as she’d measured the new shirts and hearing the joy of a woman’s laughter had lifted the winter from his soul for one brief moment.
The night felt suffocating and he was glad for the dark. How could he look himself in the eye? A man too old for such a young woman, whose time for loving had already been spent.
Silvery shafts of light pierced the land as he walked past the barn and listened to the ice crunch beneath his feet. The freezing air burned his lungs, and he drew it in deep. The cold settled into him, pumped through his veins and filled his heart.
He waited on the edge of a low rise, gazing at the vast prairie stretching black-blue toward the horizon. He stayed until every last memory faded. Until there was nothing but the sound of the wind in his ears and the rhythm of his own breath.
* * *
Linnea felt a welcome sense of freedom heading out into the crisp morning. The nearly thawed snow had refrozen overnight, and it was hard and slick beneath her shoes, but soon it would all be gone. The plains already gleamed with the first blush of spring.
The quick trills of lark song filled the air and gave her something to think about other than the newly altered shirts she carried and the man who owned them.
At the crest of the first rise in the roadway, she could see him through the glare of the cheerful sun. Seth was hard at work repairing the fence line, his hat tipped jauntily, head bent to his task.
Just walk up to him and give him the shirts, she reasoned. No lingering. No talking. No wishing.
It seemed so simple until she was in his shadow, gazing up at him against the brilliance of a new spring sky. She knew the instant he sensed her. His hammer’s rhythm hurried and then slowed until he put the tool down with a clunk and swiveled on his boot heels toward her.
“Don’t tell me that you’ve finished my shirts already.”
“It’s been a week, and there wasn’t much to do. I’ll just leave them here, on the wagon seat.”
Remember, just give him the shirts and walk away. She ignored the desire to seek out his face in the shadows beneath his Stetson’s brim. She laid the carefully wrapped package on the worn board seat.
His gaze felt like flame on her back. The black stallion tethered nearby lifted his head and allowed the wind to catch his gleaming mane, as if searching for admiration. She resisted the urge to reach out and stroke him, knowing the greatest reason for doing so was to keep her here, in Seth’s presence.
She withdrew her hand and twisted away from the wagon.
“Are you planning on running away without letting me pay you?”
“You’re busy. We can settle up later.”
“At least tell me what I owe you.” Already he was reaching for his billfold and thumbing through greenbacks.
“Twenty-five cents a shirt is what I used to charge.”
“Used to?”
“Before Mrs. Jance moved to town and opened her shop. I’m not sure what the going rate is these days.”
“Two bits sounds like a fine deal to me.” He counted out three dollars. The greenbacks snapped in the wind.
Linnea stood tiptoe to take the bills from Seth’s hand. His fingers were stained with dirt and his knuckles were nicked from small cuts.
Stop noticing him, she scolded herself and tucked the bills into her cloak pocket.
“Look at that.” Seth stood, spellbound by something out of her sight. He straightened, gazing over the fence.
“The mustangs!” The faint off-rhythm of galloping horses grew louder. “I can’t believe they’re still here.”
“Where do they go in the summer?”
“Up into the foothills of the mountains.” She stood on tiptoe, straining to see the herd, but they remained hidden.
“Climb up so you can see.” Seth climbed up on the fence and held out his hand to her, Linnea Holmstrom. “Come, watch them with me.”
In the light of day, where he could see she wasn’t pretty or young. And after all that his sister must have told him. His palm remained outstretched in an invitation that made her feel every inch a woman. Breathless and vibrant and sparkling.
How could she resist?
Chapter Five
She caught hold of the rails and climbed high enough to see over the rise of the land. There they were! The wild mustangs soared over the new shoots of tender grass, their manes and tails flying. The beat of their hooves drummed like music across the earth.
Without thinking, she laid her hand on Seth’s arm. Heat flashed across her palm. An answering warmth fluttered low in her stomach. A desire so real she lost her balance. He reached out to steady her.
Good going, Linnea. He’d be able to figure out she had a crush on him if she kept that up. She’d vowed to keep her emotions under control, but she couldn’t help wishing, just a little. Standing beside him and breathing in his man-and-wind scent made her weak.
Far too weak.
Just think about the mustangs, she told herself. They were nearly as grand as Seth was. They raced closer, so she could make out each individual horse. They wheeled like winged creatures, muscles rippling as they turned south, directly toward them.
“They’re coming this way.” She couldn’t hold back her excitement.
Seth didn’t seem to share it. He swept off his hat and frowned. “Gunfire. Listen.”
A popping sound joined the music of the galloping horses, and their rhythm changed. The stallion trumpeted, stretching out to nip several mares, spurring them to greater speeds. The wind carried a frantic feeling of fear.
“Those are Mr. Neilson’s fields.”
“I wish I had my Winchester. Chances are he’s only trying to scare them.”
“They’re pretty hungry this time of year.” The mustangs disappeared down a rise and out of sight, trailed by a man on horseback. She could hear the report of a repeating rifle and the harsh cries of the stallion.
“Something’s wrong.” Seth leaped over the top rail and hit the ground running. “Stay here.”
Not a chance. Linnea clutched the top board and slipped over it. Seth was already yards ahead of her, sprinting toward the distant fence line that separated th
e McIntyres’ land from the Neilsons’.
A horse’s neigh keened above the sounds of running horses and a man’s angry curses. Had Neilson shot one of the mustangs? How could anyone harm such beautiful creatures? Anger fueled her as she raced behind Seth, but he was already leaping the section line fence and he, too, disappeared from her sight.
Suddenly a golden mare leaped over the wooden rails, platinum mane flying. A second and a third mare cleared the fence, eyes rimmed white with fear, their beautiful coats flecked with lather. Frantic, they balked at the sight of her and veered away.
Dozens of mares, heavy with foal, flew over the fence. She could smell the heat of their coats and feel the breeze as they soared past. The earth beneath her boots vibrated and then they were gone, the ground still, the melody of their gait growing distant on the wind.
Angry men’s voices remained, growing louder. Linnea pulled herself onto the middle rail of the fence and saw Seth in the small gully below, holding a mare to the ground with the force of his weight on her neck. Blood marked her golden coat in harsh red streaks.
“Linnea!” Seth called up at her, never taking his attention from the thrashing animal. “Run to my barn as fast as you can. I need wire cutters from the left shelf in the tack room and as much rope as you can carry. Hurry!”
“Worthless creature tore up my new barbed wire,” Mr. Neilson complained as Linnea hopped to the ground and ran with all her might.
* * *
“Easy, girl,” Seth murmured to the terrified mare. “We’ll have you out soon. Just keep calm.”
That was like asking a twister to become a gentle breeze. The mustang’s powerful muscles bunched beneath Seth, and even though he held her head down and back so she couldn’t rise, he had to sit on her and use his weight to keep her from breaking his hold. Sweat covered them both from stem to stern. Neilson wasn’t helping.
“Know how much this newfangled fence cost me to put in? A fancy sum, dangnabbit. Thought it might be worth it to keep those worthless pieces of horseflesh out of my fields. That’s what the salesman told me. Horses won’t touch it. Not even the wild ones. Oy.”