Her Montana Man. Cheryl St.John

who he was.

      Her gaze was steady, sending the same disturbing feeling it always elicited across his nerve endings. Why was it her presence made him look into himself with questions? Did that fight define him?

      She unsettled him.

      “Thank you for the flowers.” Her cheeks turned pink, bringing fresh color to her pale complexion. She held his gaze only a moment longer, then glanced away, confirming her embarrassment.

      “Appreciate that you spoke up,” he answered.

      “You’d already thanked me.”

      He had. But the words hadn’t felt adequate. Well, truth was he’d groped for an opportunity to paint himself in a better light in her mind. Why in tarnation he gave it a second thought was a concern, though.

      Across the room, a woman spoke to a youngster, and he rose from where he sat on the hearth to leave with her. The remaining platinum-haired boy stared after them, then his gaze moved across the people crowding the room toward the hallway. Jonas sensed confusion and fear. Finally, the child spotted Eliza Jane. He got up and crossed the room to them. “Aunt Liza?”

      She reached out to place the backs of her fingers against his cheek in a loving gesture. “Your friends left?”

      He nodded, his blue eyes wide and shining. Then so softly that Jonas could barely hear him, he asked, “Could I sit on your lap for a little while?”

      Eliza Jane’s composure must’ve been tested, because she pursed her lips and tilted her head, but recovered and answered swiftly, “Of course you may.”

      She smoothed the skirts of her black dress, and the boy raised one knee and sidled onto her lap. Her arms came around him, one hand smoothing his hair from his forehead. She pressed a kiss against his temple, and her eyelids drifted closed as though his very scent was a comfort. He snuggled against her.

      Jonas’s chest got a tight feeling. Her sister’s child. When he’d heard the news of Jenny Lee’s death in town the day before, he’d also heard clucking and lamenting about the poor dear child and grieving husband she’d left behind. He knew what it was like to lose a mother.

      Jonas halted that train of thought. “Your nephew?” he asked.

      “This is Tyler. Tyler, meet Mr. Black.”

      Tyler obediently sat straight and looked at him.

      “How do, sir.”

      “Pleased to make your acquaintance, young man.”

      Tyler looked to Eliza for approval, and she smiled. He tucked himself right back with his head under her chin. “Are you sleepy?” she asked.

      “Only a little.”

      “All this company is tiring, isn’t it?”

      “Are they all Mama’s friends?”

      “They came because they cared for her, and they want to show that they care about you, too.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Why don’t we go upstairs? You can change out of your suit jacket and lie on your bed for a little while.”

      “I don’t want to go yet,” he answered.

      “All right then. You may sit with me a while longer.”

      Jonas thought perhaps he should go, but just as he was about to excuse himself, Eliza spoke. “How is Miss Holmes?”

      “Good, I reckon. She’s a fine worker.”

      “Housekeeping you said?”

      “Uh-huh.” Oh, he was a witty conversationalist.

      “Do you employ a number of people?”

      “About twenty.” He explained about the operations of the hotel and the saloon and how many it took to keep both businesses running. “Handle the employment vouchers myself.”

      “How does that work exactly?”

      “Well. You know a lot of men have been lured West by gold or adventure or the dream of land. Reality of it is most of ’em end up needin’ jobs. Oh, a few strike it rich and are the moneymakers, but the rest are the real workers. The ones who actually dig trenches and tunnels and drive spikes. Ones who harvest crops and fell trees.”

      She nodded, showing her interest.

      “Those kind of jobs move around with the railroad and with the seasons. Railroad, farmers, mine owners and the state all let me know when they need laborers. I sell vouchers for those jobs and the industry owners pay me commission when they hire.”

      She didn’t respond, and he couldn’t read her expression. “I already know your brother-in-law doesn’t have any use for what I do.”

      She glanced away and then back at him. “I don’t understand why he calls you a slave trader.”

      “Maybe he wishes he’d thought of it first?” he suggested with half a grin. “Dunno. They aren’t slaves, they’re hardworking men. I’m doin’ ’em a service by locating the jobs. They call themselves hoboes, you know.”

      “I didn’t. What does that mean?”

      “Just means a migratory worker.”

      “Not tramps.”

      He shook his head. “Tramps and bums beg and don’t want to work. These men are the backbone of industry all the way from here to the Dakotas and up into Canada.”

      “What about their families?”

      “Most of ’em have never been married. Some are immigrants who left wives behind in other countries.”

      Jonas glanced over and noticed Tyler had fallen asleep in her arms. He was a good-sized boy and must be getting heavy. “He’s asleep.”

      She nodded. “I could tell. He was exhausted. He never sits on my lap anymore. The fact that he did today, not caring who saw, says a lot. Do you think you could help me?”

      “What can I do?”

      “I don’t think I can lift him from where I sit, and I’d never make it up the stairs. I’d hate to wake him to get him to his bed.”

      Jonas glanced around, not spotting Tyler’s father. He stood and bent to take the boy from her arms, getting one arm behind his knees and another around his back. Jonas’s arms brushed Eliza Jane’s as she released Tyler, and she met his eyes.

      Heat like quicksilver ignited in his belly at the combination of that innocent touch and the spark of her amber gaze. She noticed something, too.

      She stood, smoothing her skirts, and touched his arm. “Upstairs.”

      She led the way to the foyer and up the broad, carpeted staircase, her black skirts swishing. He glimpsed white lace above her heels with each stair she climbed ahead of him. He didn’t allow himself to look up, knowing her backside would be at his eye level.

      He followed her along a hallway lined with polished mahogany doors and framed art until she opened one and gestured for him to enter ahead of her. The house smelled like candles and lemon wax.

      He carried Tyler into a well-lit room with a heavy oak bedstead and bureau, a chest against one wall, and a row of wooden soldiers at attention along the windowsill.

      Eliza Jane tugged at the drapery tassels, letting the material fall over the opening and cloak the room in semidarkness. Moving forward with a rustle of skirts, she pulled back the blue-and-white patterned quilt and a crisp sheet.

      Jonas lowered Tyler to the bed, easing his head onto the pillow and straightening his legs.

      His aunt removed his boots. Jonas reached to take them from her and set them aside. She pulled the covers up over Tyler and rhythmically threaded her fingers through his hair, as though she was in no hurry to leave him. Jonas couldn’t help noticing the pain and adoration on her face when she looked at the boy.