Montana Wife. Jillian Hart

she could only comfort him until his sobs quieted into tears and, finally, aching silence.

      She laid him on his bed and tucked the sheet snug around his chest. He was lying as if asleep. He wasn’t. She could tell. How did she make this better? This was no cut knee to bandage or no broken toy to fix.

      She sat on the edge of his feather mattress and sang the lullabies her mother had sung to her in Swedish, her first language. She no longer remembered what the words meant, but the songs were melodies of love and comfort, and so she sang until her throat turned hoarse and her son relaxed into a dreamless sleep.

      Only then did she rise, blow a kiss to his brow and steal from the room. She left his door ajar so she could hear him should he stir again.

      Her bare feet whispered on the polished floorboard and emptiness accompanied her to her room. The moon had set and there was only stardust to guide her to the window as she brushed the lace curtains from the sill and gazed out at the seed-heavy fields of wheat.

      Wheat that had to be cut before the grain fell from the stalks. But how? Kol, how am I going to do this without you?

      You will find a way, you always do. That was his voice she heard in her thoughts, words he would often say to her. Remembering him renewed the pain of his passing. Made the ache within her explode and leave only pieces of her heart as she buried her face in her hands.

      She had children. A homestead. Responsibilities. Yes, she would find a way. What hurt to the depths of her being was having to make her way without Kol.

      It wasn’t being alone that troubled her the most. No, what broke her from the inside out was realizing the night would end. Dawn would come. She would have to live that day, while Kol could not.

      Unable to climb into her lonely bed, she sank to her knees on the unforgiving floor. She buried her face in her hands and cried for the life Kol would not have.

      For the care she would never be able to give to him. She cried for the man she’d vowed to cherish until death parted them.

      Death had parted them. The love had not.

      It was too soon after the funeral and Daniel Lindsay knew it, but what was he going to do? Let the opportunity go to someone else? No. His conscience troubled him, but it didn’t keep him from rapping on the Ludgrin’s front door even though two whole days hadn’t passed since the funeral.

      Life went on; it was the sad truth. He couldn’t say he knew what it was like to lose a loved one. He’d never had any family that he remembered to lose—

      The glass handle turned and the door squeaked open. A round-faced little boy gazed up at him with sad eyes. Daniel pegged the little guy to be about seven or eight years old, too damn young to be without a father. This, Daniel sorely knew.

      “Is your mother home?”

      His solemn eyes blinked. The breeze batted at his white-blond hair sticking straight up at the crown. “Ma’s out back.”

      Out back? Probably tending to the livestock. Kol might be gone, but the cattle still needed fresh water. “I’ll go look for her.”

      “She’s hard to find cuz the wheat’s so tall. I gotta watch her from the window upstairs.” The boy pointed straight through the roof.

      His chest ached for the tyke, who was anxious to keep track of his mother as if he could lose her, too. Daniel couldn’t help feeling sorrow, for he knew something about loss. He’d grown up in a string of orphanages. He knew what it was like to wish for a family lost. It was sad this son of Kol’s would know the sting of loss the rest of his life. No kid should have to live with that. It left scars on the man Daniel was to this day.

      How would it affect the little Ludgrin boy?

      The door squeaked closed as he knuckled back his hat and followed the wraparound porch to the steps leading to the side yard.

      Flowers bloomed everywhere, fat roses and yellow climbing flowers that smelled good enough to eat. There wasn’t a weed in sight, and that said something about the care Rayna Ludgrin took with her house and, he hoped, with her life.

      Would she be fair? Would she listen to what he had to say, even if it wasn’t the most appropriate time to be saying it?

      As he opened the white, hand-carved gate and clicked it shut behind him, he could see the care Kol had taken, too. Kol had been a good man. Judging by the look of the place, he’d been a good husband. The barn was newly painted, the roof in good repair. Every joint in the split-rail fence solidly hewn. The cattle looked well fed. The sleek, matched bay horses were groomed and their brown-velvet coats gleamed with fine health.

      Surely his wife wouldn’t want to see all her husband’s hard work fall to ruin. It wasn’t as if she could harvest the hundred and sixty acres herself.

      Where was she? Daniel looked around, in case he had somehow missed her. He was alone in the shade of the fruit trees. She wasn’t at work in the ripe acre-size garden. Nor was she in the pasture where the livestock drowsed in the hot afternoon sun.

      How far out back had she gone? Daniel wandered past the fence line and called out a greeting before he stepped foot inside the barn. Only the faint echo of his hello in the rafters and the beat of his boots on the hard-packed earth answered.

      She wasn’t here, either.

      A fresh new trail of horse hooves and the deep rut of wagon wheels marked the dusty path. Daniel followed them, wandering from the barn and into golden fields where the fat, seed-heavy heads of wheat spread for miles in every direction.

      There, about a quarter of an acre due south, rose a cloud of chalk dust, a brown smudge hovering above the fields of gold. Someone was harvesting the Ludgrin’s wheat. Someone had beat him here. He’d waited too long. Cursing, he walked faster. Who had beaten him to the draw? Who was harvesting Kol’s wheat and for what price?

      He shouldn’t have waited an extra day, shouldn’t have waited at all. When he thought of Rayna Ludgrin, pale and fragile at the funeral, he was at a loss. He couldn’t trouble the grief-stricken woman, not at her husband’s gravesite. He wasn’t a heartless person.

      Neither, he figured was she. Although she’d suffered a terrible tragedy, she had to be starting to realize what she was up against. She had crops ready to drop in the fields. There were financial consequences that came from that. It had to be overwhelming to face her husband’s death and the responsibility that went along with farming all alone, all at once.

      It was only natural that a person in that circumstance would want help. She’d said yes to the first man to approach her. Why wouldn’t she? It only made sense. Daniel felt like a clodpate for waiting. He’d meant it as a show of respect, but apparently that hadn’t been necessary.

      As did many women he’d come across—most, in fact—Rayna Ludgrin probably only cared that a man was providing for her. Doing the hard work for her.

      Yep, he knew that about some women. His low opinion of the gender was one of the reasons he’d never married. It was hard to find a smart woman who was kind and industrious.

      He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. What he ought to do was to accept defeat, turn around and get back to his wheat. Why his boots kept heading deeper into Ludgrin’s fields instead of back toward his own, he couldn’t rightly say. Maybe he wanted to see who had beaten him to the gun.

      It wasn’t any of the Dayton grandsons, because he’d seen them hard at work on the Dayton land on his way over. Who did that leave? The rest of the surrounding ranchers all worked together, buying one harvester between them and working as a team to bring in all the crops. An effort that Daniel had been invited to join but had turned down. He’d learned his hard lesson long ago. It was better to be alone than to trust someone else. Best to stand on his own two feet.

      The tall rows of dense endless wheat gave way before him. Instead of the bright paint of a newfangled harvester, he saw the tailgate of a wagon. A hand scythe lay propped against the rear axle. The cutting implement