Montana Legend. Jillian Hart

this little slip of a woman made his burdens seem to disappear, if only for a moment.

      She knelt to inspect his work, a small smile on her soft lips as if she were holding back more laughter. As if she were taking pleasure in teasing him.

      “All right. I guess that will do. It’s the Buchanan land you’re looking for?”

      “That’s right, ma’am. I’m expected to arrive this morning. I gave my word.”

      “A man of his word, are you? I thought those didn’t exist anymore.” She swept close to snatch the balled-up apron.

      For an instant she was near enough for him to see the soft threads of gold in her hair. To smell the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of wood smoke, crisp and clean. She’d lit the morning cooking fire, he’d wager, noticing her delicate hands chapped red from hard work. He felt sorry for her, living in that anger-filled house.

      She shook the dirt from her apron in a smooth snap, breaking through his thoughts and calling his attention back to watch her fold the length of calico over her lean forearm.

      “You’ll want to head back the way you came,” she said in that gentle way of hers. “Stay left at the first fork you come to in the road. Buchanan’s place is about the fifth ranch you come to. Keep our barn in your sight, and you’ll be fine.”

      “I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”

      “Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel too old. I’m not stoop-shouldered yet.”

      Old? She looked young—not too young—and easy to look at as she shaded her eyes with one hand. “My name is Sarah Redding.”

      He tipped his hat. “Well, Miss Sarah Redding, I’ll round up your chickens and be on my way.”

      Sarah couldn’t help the pull of disappointment in her chest. “Miss,” he’d called her. It was a common enough mistake, she supposed, thinking of the several bachelors and widowers who’d been by to call when she’d first arrived at Aunt Pearl’s house last spring.

      As soon they’d learned she was not as young as they figured and she had a daughter, they nearly tripped over their feet to leave in a hurry and never returned. And if it hurt, she wasn’t about to admit it or to expect that this man, as appealing as he may seem, would be any different.

      And if that were true, she didn’t want him gathering up her aunt’s escaped chickens. “I can catch the hens on my own,” she called after him. “They’re my responsibility and besides, didn’t you give your word? You have places to be.”

      “It won’t take more than a few minutes to help.”

      “Go on, cowboy. It’s my work to do.”

      A chicken squawked, flapping to keep out of his reach. He hesitated, straightening to figure out the best thing to do. Didn’t seem right to leave her like this, but she looked determined to be rid of him. Maybe she was one of those independent types, never settling for a husband and marriage.

      Or maybe it was him she didn’t want hanging around for too long.

      “I’ll be on my way, if that’s what you want, ma’am.” He gathered his mare’s reins, taking comfort in the familiar feel of worn leather against his skin. Something made him hesitate, maybe because she was the most decent woman he’d come across in some time.

      Maybe he had no right taking an interest, but it didn’t stop him. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you living with relatives? A pretty lady like you ought to be married.”

      “The truth is, I haven’t found the right man. Only inferior ones wind up traveling down my road.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him—not coy or enticing, but gentle and honest. She tilted her head to one side, scattering the gold wisps that had escaped her braid.

      And revealing a small white downy feather stuck in the hair above her left ear. The breeze lifted and made it flutter. “Good luck to you, cowboy. I appreciate your help.”

      “My pleasure, miss.” He tipped his hat and mounted. The creak of the saddle was the only sound between them and he waited, trying to think of something more to say.

      But the truth was, he’d never had much desire to charm the ladies. He was more practiced in keeping his distance from them, not in figuring out how to talk with them. When was the last time he’d been interesting in keeping up a conversation with a woman?

      He couldn’t rightly say. Just as he couldn’t rightly explain why his heart ached with her sweetness as the breeze ruffled her skirt and the wisps of hair that escaped from her braids.

      He liked the sight of her, faded dress and all.

      “By the way, you missed a feather.” He said it kindly as he nudged the mare with his knees and guided the animal with an expert’s ease. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

      “What?” Sarah’s hand flew to her head and her fingertips bumped into the feather’s stiff spine. She tugged it out of her hair, but he was already riding away.

      Oh, had it been sticking out straight like that the entire time?

      Probably. Heat swept across her face. There he goes, the most handsome man who had ever wandered down her road, and what kind of impression did she make? Certainly not one that charmed him to the depths of his soul.

      Sarah brushed at the skirt that had been her mother’s. So old, the dyes had faded from the cotton, leaving only light gray. Her hair wasn’t even up yet, she realized, a long braid sticking her mid-back as she rescued an escaped hen. A terrible feeling settled into her stomach. Had she made a fool of herself? Most likely.

      Well, today wouldn’t be the day she fell in love with a wonderful man.

      She’d long since stopped expecting love to happen twice in her lifetime, but the tiny hope inside her remained.

      Maybe tomorrow. A woman could always hope there would be another man riding her way, tall and strong, with eyes the color of the wind.

      Over the last rise the Buchanan ranch came into view, or what he figured had to be the Buchanan spread. Because the split-rail fence alongside the road went from well-maintained to tumbling-down.

      He ought to have expected it, the way his luck had always been. Still, this was a fair piece of prairie that went on as far as he could see. A slice of heaven for sale right here on the vast Montana prairie.

      Gage reined the mare to a stop and looked. Just looked. What a sight. The sun was drifting over the horizon, gaining in brightness, chasing away the last of the night shadows. He couldn’t get enough of these wide-open spaces and it filled him with hope.

      Real, honest-to-goodness hope, and that was a hard thing for a practical man like him. A man who’d seen too much of the bad life had in it. But that life seemed a lifetime away as the warmth of the morning seeped through his clothes and into his skin. He didn’t believe that dreams existed. But maybe here he had a chance. To make a permanent home for his daughter’s sake. To find some peace for his.

      Maybe.

      Looking from left to right, he remembered the description in Buchanan’s letter.

      Two whole sections. Two square miles of his own land. Larger than any he’d yet come across. It was something to consider even if neglect hung on the crooked fence posts that leaned one way, then another. How they stood up at all was a wonder.

      Gage nudged his mare onto the dirt path and considered the desolate fields surrounding him, fields grazed down to earth and stone. Cattle dotted the pasture and lifted their heads at his approach. Several bawled at him, their ribs visible, suffering from hunger. Good animals, too, and valuable enough—

      He swore. Whoever Buchanan was, he was a damn fool.

      Turn around, his instincts told him. You’ve looked at better property and kept on riding. Gage knew what he wanted, and this rundown homestead wasn’t