Whitefeather's Woman. Deborah Hale

gone quite a spell now and Ruth told me all your bags got burned up in a train wreck.” He glanced up at her, then looked away again, blushing. “That must’ve been exciting.”

      “I suppose so.” Jane hoped Zeke wouldn’t pester her for details that might unravel her tangled falsehood. “Not exciting in a good way, I’m afraid.”

      Was there a good kind of excitement?

      Before the boy could inquire further, a loud and sustained wail rang out downstairs.

      Ruth Kincaid turned to her stepson. “Go see what your brother’s done to himself this time, Zeke. I’ll be right down.”

      The boy grimaced. “Aw, do I have to?”

      “Please, Zeke.”

      Muttering to himself about the bother of baby brothers, the boy headed downstairs.

      Ruth pushed the trunk over Jane’s threshold. “You’re kind to think of Zeke’s feelings. Don’t worry, though, he won’t have many memories of his mother wearing these things. Use whatever will fit.”

      “What about Mr. Kincaid?” The impossibly tactless question slipped out before Jane could help herself.

      To her surprise and relief, Caleb Kincaid’s second wife shook her head. “I asked him, and he doesn’t mind. Come down to breakfast when you’re dressed. You can meet Barton and we’ll talk about this job you have with us.”

      When her new employer had gone, Jane found it took longer than she planned to rummage through the trunk for something to wear. The clothes fit her well enough, but few looked suitable for a Montana rancher’s wife, let alone a hired girl.

      To Jane, who had never owned pretty clothes because Mrs. Endicott disdained such frivolity, the trunk was a treasure trove. She couldn’t resist trying on one or two of the fanciest dresses before settling on a comparatively simple style in apple green. If she borrowed an apron of Ruth’s to cover the front, it might not be too fancy for doing chores.

      Employing a dainty hairbrush she found in the trunk, Jane dressed her plain brown hair in a style that veiled as much as possible of her healing face. After making her bed, she followed the tantalizing smell of coffee down to the kitchen.

      There she found Ruth adding chopped vegetables to a big cast-iron pot on the back of the stove. Young Zeke was shoving oatmeal into the mouth of a baby, whose plump cheeks were caked with drying porridge.

      Jane tried to guess how old he might be. Not a young infant, for he held himself erect in the chair. A year old, perhaps? Two? Should a woman be caring for young children if she couldn’t place the age of a baby better than that?

      Stifling that nauseating qualm of doubt, Jane stooped in front of the high chair. She offered her forefinger for the baby to grasp in his chubby fist. “This must be Master Barton. He looks like a hearty eater.”

      “Watch out if you’re trying to feed him something he doesn’t like.” Zeke pulled a face. “Pa says Barton can spit farther than a rattlesnake.”

      Jane could scarcely imagine this chuckling cherub being any trouble. As much as Zeke looked like his father, little Barton was the image of his mother, with golden-brown skin, fine black hair and dark laughing eyes. When he cracked a wide gummy smile and crowed his delight at seeing her, Jane surrendered her heart to him.

      After what Emery had done to her, the idea of marriage now frightened Jane too much to contemplate. Which meant she would never have babies of her own.

      To distract herself from that wrenching regret, she asked Zeke, “What sorts of food does your little brother dislike?”

      “Mashed peas.” The boy rolled his eyes.

      “Oh dear.” Jane laughed, and Barton’s big brother laughed with her.

      “I’ll be glad when he’s older.” Zeke passed Barton’s bowl and spoon to Jane. “Then I can take him riding with me and fishing down at the creek. Right now, he’s not much use.”

      Jane nodded. She couldn’t find it in her heart to tell Zeke that by the time his baby brother was able to ride and fish, he probably wouldn’t want the little fellow tagging along. She could hardly remember her older brother, who had sickened and died of the typhoid along with their mother. She did recall how Ches had discouraged her from following him and his friends.

      Ruth Kincaid gave one last stir to the contents of the pot, then she opened the warming tray above the stove and lifted down a bowl and a plate. “Come eat breakfast, Miss Harris. I kept it hot for you.”

      Planting a kiss on the baby’s fat fist, Jane pried her finger from his sturdy grasp. She took her place at the table and tucked into her breakfast gratefully. When Ruth brought her a cup of strong black coffee, she savored each sip.

      “Today I’ll show you around the house.” Mrs. Kincaid brought her own steaming cup of coffee to the table and took a seat opposite Jane. “I’ll explain what chores I want you to do while you’re with us. After that we can—”

      Before the rancher’s wife could finish, a stampede of footsteps thundered out on the porch. Jane cringed at the sound, then exhaled a breath of relief when Caleb Kincaid burst through the kitchen door.

      “Can you come, Ruth?” he called to his wife. “Bring your medicines. Lizzie’s brother’s been thrown by his horse out on the range. Broke some bones and may have cracked his skull. I don’t want to move the young fellow until you look him over first.”

      With a nod to her husband, Ruth rose from her chair and strode out of the kitchen. She returned a moment later wearing her bonnet and shawl, and carrying a brown leather satchel.

      She glanced at Jane. “Good fortune brought you to us last night, Miss Harris. Take care of the boys while I am gone.”

      Before Jane could ask how long that might be, the Kincaids had hurried out of the ranch house. Caleb shot her a glance as they were leaving—wary and vaguely hostile. Perhaps he didn’t like her wearing his late wife’s clothes, after all.

      Young Barton stared at the door for a moment, as if expecting his parents to come rushing back in again. When a little time passed and they did not materialize, he screwed up his face and began to cry loudly.

      Zeke scowled at his little brother. “He don’t like it when Ruth goes off like that. If I was you, I’d stuff rags in my ears, miss.”

      “He’ll settle down.” Jane hollered to make herself heard over Barton’s shrill lament. Hunting up a damp cloth, she wiped the baby’s face, which made him cry harder still. Then she scooped him up out of his high chair and bounced him gently, trying to comfort him.

      The child’s sobs gradually subsided into wet hiccups. A warm surge of success buoyed Jane—indispensable. “There now, that wasn’t so bad.”

      Time to wipe off the tray of his high chair and wash the breakfast dishes. Giving his warm little body a final squeeze, Jane set Barton down on the floor so she could tend to the other chores.

      “Waaaa!” The crying returned in full force and increased volume.

      Jane picked the baby up again. My, he was a heavy little armful! The gentle ache of her ribs sharpened. It took her longer to quiet him this time, but at last his tears subsided and he poked a plump thumb into his mouth. Shifting him to her hip, Jane managed to carry her breakfast dishes and his porridge bowl to the corner washtub. She dampened a rag and swiped it over the tray of his chair. It wasn’t as thorough a job as she would like to have done, but the best she could manage one-handed while balancing a heavy baby on her hip.

      Zeke ambled to the kitchen door, grabbing his hat and coat from their pegs.

      “Where are you going?” Jane asked.

      The boy shrugged. “Poke around the corrals. Maybe saddle up Windsinger and go for a ride.”

      Jane thought of the cowboy thrown from his horse. The one Mrs. Kincaid might