The Horseman. Jillian Hart

snow falling, it felt as if the sky was so close to the ground that if she went outside, she could almost touch heaven. Wishful thinking, she knew, but it remained a hard longing within her. Probably because she wanted to escape this house and this pain.

      “I told you, hot tea in the mornings. Hot, not tepid. This is entirely unacceptable.” There was a clatter from upstairs and an angry tap of shoes on the staircase that echoed through the downstairs room.

      It didn’t sound as if Mother was in a good mood this morning. Katelyn cradled her teacup in her hand and hobbled to the kitchen. She was still too tender to hurry, but she ignored the shooting pain that radiated from her midsection as the beat of Mother’s angry footsteps knelled closer. Thankfully the kitchen doors swung shut behind her a second before Mother entered the dining room.

      “She’s in a mood this morning.” Effie stirred scrambled eggs on the stove. “I don’t blame ya for wanting away from her. Stay here with me, and I’ll give you the best bits of bacon I saved. With all you’ve been through, you need to eat. Else how do you expect to gain back your health?”

      “Just the tea for now, thanks.” Katelyn brushed a kiss along the older woman’s cheek. Effie Kerr had been a fixture in this kitchen for as long as she could remember and more kindly to her than her own mother could dream of being. “I’m too upset to eat.”

      “And little wonder, with the way they was carryin’ on, as if you’d done somethin’ bad.” Effie put down her wooden spoon to brush a handful of blond locks from Katelyn’s face. “That husband they made you marry is the bad one. Everyone knows it. Never heard of such a thing, undoing the marriage the way he did. Suppose he knows how to do it, but it ain’t right if you ask me.”

      “Don’t work yourself up, Effie.” Katelyn caught the older woman’s callused hands in her own and gave a squeeze. “I wasn’t happy being a wife to that man.”

      “I should think not.” She returned to the stove, shuffling like a woman far older than her years, her back beginning to stoop. Her sadness was as palpable as the heat radiating from the stove.

      Losing her son had been hard on her. Katelyn recalled how Old Pete Kerr had wanted to kill the stallion, and remembering that majestic creature made her breath catch. He’d been remarkable, like poetry moving in the darkness, something bold and beautiful and striking like William Blake would have written, a wild animal burning in the night.

      “Sit down, child, and finish that tea if nothing else.” Effie pulled out a chair at the small table in the corner. “Maybe some of my biscuits fresh out of the oven will tempt that appetite of yours.”

      “They smell good.” Katelyn obliged, grateful to rest in the comfortable chair. The cushion was soft, and the view remarkable. She leaned her elbows on the edge of the table, since there was no one to reprimand her, and stared out at the world of white.

      If only the world could stay like this, comfortable in a cold layer of snow, and made new every morning. Although she knew the temperatures were bitter outside, sitting with her back to the stove and tea warming her up was the most pleasure she’d felt during the years she’d been married to the county’s most respected judge.

      She shivered, remembering Brett. Her stomach coiled into a tight ball and the peaceful moment was ruined. Breathing in the sweet spicy tea, she tried to banish thoughts of him from her mind. She needn’t think about him or any man ever again.

      She was better without a husband. Without a ring on her finger. Safer.

      “It’s good to see you feeling better, dear. To have you up and about.” Effie slid a covered basket onto the edge of the table. “Don’t be afraid to eat them all. Go on, now.”

      The warm yeasty scent of fresh roll with melted butter, sugar and cinnamon made Katelyn’s mouth water. Her stomach growled in anticipation. “Maybe just one.”

      “Thata girl.” Satisfied, the cook ambled away. The bang of pans against the stove filled the kitchen with a merry sound.

      Katelyn took one sticky roll from the basket and tore off a bite-sized morsel with her fingers. The gooey icing reminded her of when she was a little girl, sitting at this same table and unrolling the coiled cinnamon roll so it was one long strip of sweetness.

      Something stirred in the white downfall outside and distracted her. She absently placed a bit of roll in her mouth and chewed, squinting through the smudged windowpanes. All she could see was the steady cascade of snow falling like rain outside, obscuring the mountains and the plains, giving her only a view of the yard directly outside the window.

      There it was again. She held her breath as a blur of dark color moved closer. A deer, perhaps? An elk? Or what if it was a moose? She’d missed the wildlife coming to visit, living in town for so long. At least that was one blessing. She’d grab her coat, head straight to the barn and snatch a bag of grain. Maybe the animals would come close enough so she could watch them eat.

      But it wasn’t a deer or an elk or even a moose that broke through the veil of snow and into her sight. It was Dillon Hennessey riding a big black-and-white mustang. Sitting tall and straight in the saddle, he looked rugged and as invincible as a warrior of old. As if nothing could defeat or diminish him.

      A strange tingle began at her nape and slid down her spine. What kind of man was Dillon Hennessey? Why did she want to know? She didn’t like men. She wasn’t interested in them. Not after what she’d been through.

      So, why couldn’t she tear her eyes from him? Why did that tingle in her spine strengthen when he rode so close to the window?

      He was dressed well for the weather, and she couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t see anything more of him than she had last night in the dark. But the wide cut of his coat suggested a man of muscle and strength. The shadowed profile hinted at a man hard as stone.

      She shivered. He was probably a harsh man. Weren’t they all? Stronger than a woman, and he was probably the worst, breaking horses with whips and spurs and cruelty.

      The image of Brett’s raised fist flashed into her mind and she shook harder, willing it away. She was safe from him here. Whatever happened to her now would not be as bad as being married to that man.

      She wrapped her hands around the teacup and lifted it to her lips. The dark liquid sloshed up to the rim but didn’t spill. She took a deep breath. She had to relax. She didn’t need to be so jumpy. She was safe, remember?

      She felt something, a strange sensation like the brush of a feather against the side of her face. She snapped her head up. There, on the other side of the glass, the horseman was staring at her. He’d turned in the saddle, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, and in the storm all she saw was his dark blue gaze, compelling and calm, before the snowfall swallowed him whole. Leaving her watching the flakes tumbling past the window and with a strange quickening in her chest.

      “Effie, do you know anything about that new man?”

      “The wrangler?” The wooden spoon scraped on the steel fry pan. “Came in about a month ago. Your stepfather brought him in to work with his new mares. Dillon Hennessey’s supposed to be the best. There ain’t a horse he can’t break.”

      “How unlucky for the horses.” Her stomach tightened and she stared at the roll. She was no longer hungry.

      “Horses aren’t useful for much if they can’t pull a buggy.” Effie dropped the empty pan on the counter, untroubled by the clatter, and rescued the sizzling bacon from the heat. “I hear he comes up from Texas way, but worked in Wyoming for a spell. Been all around. California. Colorado. New Mexico. He always comes back to Montana. Folks say this here territory is his home.”

      “I thought you said he was from Texas?”

      “I don’t rightly know. He isn’t given to talk much, and you know my Pete is as deaf as a turnip. Can’t hear anything right, so that’s probably what he thinks he heard about Hennessey. Haven’t spoken to the man myself. He keeps to his own.”

      A loner.