Hallie's Hero. Nicole Foster

look as he pushed away from the table and went to fix a tray for Hallie. Charlie and Eb leaned back as they finished the last dregs of their coffee.

      “Not half-bad grub fer a tenderfoot wrangler,” Eb offered as he put down his cup and got to his feet.

      Charlie nodded in agreement.

      As they ambled out to the bunkhouse, Jack decided that was one of the best compliments he’d ever had.

      Jack balanced the tray on one hand at Hallie’s door and knocked lightly at first, then more firmly when she didn’t answer. He waited a few more moments before deciding to risk going inside. She was probably sleeping, but he didn’t want to leave without making sure she hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

      Slowly, he eased the door open and stepped far enough inside to get a good look at her bed, expecting to see Hallie curled up in a nest of faded quilts and pillows. She wasn’t there.

      Typical of her, Jack thought, as he stalked back down the hall to the kitchen. Why should he be surprised at anything the bullheaded woman did?

      Serenity met him at the door, glancing at the untouched tray. “Is she all right?”

      “She’s gone,” Jack said shortly. He handed her the tray. “Where would she go this time of night?”

      Chewing at her lower lip, Serenity hesitated, then said, “Maybe to the barn. She’s been worried about that colt, the one Ethan’s been helping with. But you probably shouldn’t—”

      “You’re right. But shouldn’t is what I do best. Besides, someone’s got to talk some sense into her,” he muttered on his way out the back door. “She doesn’t have any business being out of bed.”

      She didn’t have any business being in bed. Unable to lie there and stare at the walls a moment longer when there was so much to be done, Hallie had gotten up and made her way to the barn as soon as she heard the men come in for supper.

      She’d checked on the horses, then gotten down the currycomb to take to the orphaned colt’s stall to brush his curly coat.

      The familiar rhythm and simply being alone with the animals soothed her. She was comfortable here, at ease with the feel and smells of the sturdy cedar-wood building. It was one of the few places she didn’t feel awkward or out of place.

      She loved the earthiness of it, the fresh scents of hay and corn, the soothing whinnies of the horses, the low moans and shuffling about of the milk cows. As she continued currying the colt, she absently hummed a soft little tune in time with the motion of her hands.

      Somehow the simple task brought her upside-down world aright, and things didn’t seem so terrible. She would get through this, just as she’d gotten through every other trouble the ranch had thrown at her over the years. She’d survived problems much worse than Jack Dakota.

      The crunch of straw underfoot broke Hallie’s peace. She turned to find Jack behind her, his long, lithe figure leaning lazily against the slats of a nearby stall, a piece of straw dangling from his lips.

      With a sigh, Hallie went back to brushing the colt. “You’ve got this habit of sneaking up on me. I don’t like it.”

      Though her words were short, Jack noticed the lack of heat in them. She sounded more as if she’d resigned herself to having him appear where and when she least wanted him. “That’s too bad,” he said lightly. “If you gave it half a chance, you might find the unexpected can be exciting.”

      Hallie didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t have any experience of men with silver tongues and teasing smiles, who did their best to make a person feel all twisted up inside. It seemed better to say nothing than to risk making herself look foolish.

      Jack watched as she finished currying the colt, then gave the animal a final pat before getting up off her knees and unlatching the stall door.

      She seemed different, somehow. As usual, his banter had made her ill at ease. But in the wavering lamplight, with the darkness wrapped around them, she looked gentler, softer around the edges. Though her hair was hastily braided, and she still wore a shapeless, mannish shirt and baggy pants, he’d seen a tenderness in the way she stroked the colt and the quiet way she spoke to it, a grace in the way she moved.