Whitefeather's Woman. Deborah Hale

have to go. Someone needs to be here to care for the baby and for Caleb’s boy, Zeke, while I am away. Women who come to Montana from back East often don’t stay. Our land is too big and too hard for them. When the letters came applying for the job, we chose a widow from Bismarck. She knows this country. She’ll stay for as long as we need her.”

      “I w-w-would have stayed.” Jane fought the urge to give way to tears harder than she’d ever fought anything. Childish blubbering would only convince the Kincaids they’d been right to hire someone else.

      Smoothing the tumbled strands of hair back from Jane’s face, Ruth nodded gravely. “I think you would have. I’m sorry you came so far and through so many troubles for nothing.”

      “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.” By rote, the words fell from Jane’s lips. This time, she meant them. “I should have taken the time to confirm what was written in your letter and not come dashing out to Montana based on a hopeful assumption.”

      After her ride from Whitehorn on the back of John Whitefeather’s spotted horse, she understood what Mrs. Kincaid meant about women from the East Coast not staying long in Montana. Everything about the place was on such a vast scale. It dwarfed all her efforts and her dreams. Such country demanded strength from its daughters, and Jane sensed it would not take kindly to a foundling like her.

      The dispiriting fact remained: she had nowhere to go and no means to get there if she did.

      Jane took a deep breath, trying to make herself look fearless, capable and steady. She doubted either the Kincaids or John Whitefeather would be fooled. “I’ll be obliged to you for letting me stay the night. I don’t suppose you know anyone else hereabouts who needs help looking after their children?”

      “Well now, let me think on it.” Caleb Kincaid scratched his chin in a pensive fashion.

      “Think tonight and we’ll talk more in the morning.” The rancher’s wife beckoned to Jane. “Come along, dear. Let’s find you a bed and a nightgown, then I’ll bring my medicines.”

      Despite her worries, or perhaps because of them, Jane longed to stretch out on any excuse for a bed and to flee from her troubles into the land of dreams.

      As she rose from the table to follow her hostess out of the kitchen, John Whitefeather spoke. “I have a thought, if you want to hear it.”

      Ruth Kincaid chuckled. “Was there ever a time we didn’t pay you mind, hestatanemo?” To Jane, she added, “It was my brother who advised me to leave our people and make a life with Caleb Kincaid.”

      Brother? Jane tried to mask her surprise as she berated herself for not guessing sooner. Her stomach churned as she recalled all the subtle ways she must have offended John Whitefeather since the first moment she’d approached him in the saloon. What wise counsel was he going to give his sister and brother-in-law concerning their unwanted houseguest?

      Jane braced herself.

      “When’s this other lady supposed to come?” John asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

      Caleb Kincaid shrugged. “Mrs. Muldoon didn’t rightly give a date. Said she had to settle her affairs in Bismarck first. Another few weeks, a month, who knows?”

      Nodding, as if gravely pleased with the answer, John Whitefeather cast a look at his sister. “Didn’t you get called out just the other night, when Ghost Moon had trouble birthing her twins?”

      “You know I did, since you rode with me.”

      “Well, then, since Mrs. Muldoon won’t be coming for a spell and Miss Harris is already here and could use a job, why don’t you let her look after the boys? That way she could at least earn the price of a train ticket back to Boston.”

      Before Jane could help herself, the words burst out. “I’m not going back to Boston—not ever!” Not as long as Emery Endicott was there, at least.

      They all ignored her outburst. Ruth and Caleb Kincaid exchanged a long gaze, as though sharing each other’s thoughts without words.

      Jane held still, scarcely breathing as she silently willed them to give her a chance. Her eyes met John Whitefeather’s, and she offered him a timid half smile for intervening on her behalf. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken up for her.

      At last Ruth Kincaid nodded. “My brother’s plan is a good one for all of us. Would you be willing to stay, Miss Harris, until Mrs. Muldoon can come?”

      “Yes.” Jane blurted out her acceptance before the Kincaids had time to think better of the idea. “Thank you.”

      The matter settled, Mrs. Kincaid hustled her upstairs to a rustic but snug little room under the eaves. A narrow bed stood in one corner, while a small bureau and a washstand of matching, pale-hued wood bracketed the window. Green curtains, a round braided rug and a patchwork quilt added touches of color and warmth.

      Her new employer fetched Jane a pitcher of hot water, a nightgown and an extra quilt.

      “The nights can still get cold this time of year, and you don’t have much meat on your bones, dear. We must try to fatten you up while you’re with us.”

      When Mrs. Kincaid returned later with her medicines, Jane was standing at the window, staring out at a small, sturdy cabin not far from the main house.

      “I can’t think why my brother insists on sleeping out in the foreman’s cabin when he takes all his meals with us.” As Ruth Kincaid spoke she set several clay pots of salve on top of the bureau.

      Jane remembered what the bartender in town had said about John Whitefeather always keeping to himself. That would suit her just fine. The fewer men she had to deal with in her new position, the better.

      Casting dubious looks at Ruth’s medicines, Jane wrinkled her nose at some of the smells. Patiently Ruth Kincaid told her the ingredients of each compound and what good it would do. Then she applied generous daubs on Jane’s injuries with a whisper-light touch.

      “Do you hurt anywhere else that needs tending, dear?”

      Jane’s stomach churned at Ruth Kincaid’s matter-of-fact question.

      “No.” Her hand flew to the modestly buttoned throat of her borrowed nightgown before she could stop it. “I guess my clothes must have protected the rest of me when I got thrown around the train carriage.”

      In truth, she wished Mrs. Kincaid could employ her healing touch on the ribs a doctor at the Boston infirmary had pronounced cracked. That injury and the ugly purple bruising on her bosom could easily be explained by the train-crash story. For Mrs. Kincaid to examine her ribs, though, Jane would have to expose her shoulders and upper arms. Those wounds, where Emery had dug in his nails and gouged her flesh, would betray her shameful secret.

      When she’d changed for bed, Jane had noticed the injured skin was still red and swollen. She feared the wounds would leave telltale scars.

      Mrs. Kincaid gathered up her medicines. “If that’s all I can do for you now, I’ll say good-night. Sleep well—it’s the best healer. In the morning we’ll find clothes for you.”

      She turned down the wick on Jane’s lamp, easing the tiny gable room into a warm cocoon of darkness.

      With a sigh of contentment Jane gave herself up to the modest luxury of a clean, warm bed. She could scarcely remember a time when she’d been cared for with the tenderness Mrs. Kincaid had shown her tonight. The sturdy construction of the ranch house made her feel safer than she had felt in a long time. Already she shrank from the prospect of leaving it.

      She would repay the Kincaids for their kindness, Jane vowed as exhaustion overcame her. She would work hard to care for the children and do everything possible to help Mrs. Kincaid around the house.

      If she really, really tried, perhaps she could even make herself indispensable.

      As she lapsed into dreams, Jane found herself reliving her ride from town in the untalkative company of