Montana Dreams. Jillian Hart

      “For the evening milking. Don’t think I’m not in this for the long run.”

      “That’s real neighborly of you.” Emotion brightened the older man’s eyes.

      “It’s no problem.” He walked the carousel detaching suction cups, listening to Milton’s boots drum away into silence. Millie, just out of sight. The splash of water and the rasp of the broom reminded him she was near. Too near.

      So much for his plan to avoid her.

      What he needed was a temporary plan for the interim, until he could go back to steering clear of her.

      “That’s it, girls, you’re done.” He opened the gate, freeing the cows. But did they leave? No, the first animal in line lipped his hat brim, so he rubbed her nose. “Go on, get some fresh air.”

      The bovine batted her long lashes before ambling down the ramp. The others followed her, docile and placid, although more than a few of them expected a pat or two before moving on.

      He left the door open to the wind, fragrant with mown grass. Late evening’s peace had settled in with long shadows. A few larks sang on the fence rails and as he circled around to check on the second carousel he smelled something else on the wind. The acrid scent shot alarm straight through him. A wildfire?

      But, no, one glance outside told him all was well. Green grass, grazing cows, a few deer wandering across the meadow. No black smoke, no roiling flames anywhere.

      “Hunter, you don’t smell smoke, do you?” Millie’s hose cut off. Her boots tapped closer. “Tell me you didn’t light up in the milking parlor?”

      “I quit smoking after you left.” Ran off on me, he didn’t say because that was water under the bridge. He sniffed, following the scent. “It’s coming from the barn.”

      “No, the smoke alarms would be going off.” Her forehead scrunched, as if she had second thoughts about that and shot past him.

      Right. They would be going off if they were properly maintained. It didn’t take an expert to glance around this place and see maintenance wasn’t a high priority for Whip.

      He followed her, fighting a bad feeling in his stomach. He dashed past the office and into the main barn. Smokey air, cloudy gray, confirmed his worst fears.

      “It’s in the hay mow.” Millie stormed down the aisle, pitchfork in hand.

      He grabbed an extinguisher off the wall, prayed it was in working order, and followed the crackle and roar. Orange light licked from between two bales, one of a thousand stacked bales that ran the length of the barn. Buried in there somewhere, heat had built up and made fire.

      “We’re not too late. We had better not be.” Headstrong, she jumped in with her pitchfork, ripping away smoking bales with the pitchfork’s tines. “I’m not going to lose this barn. No way. Not today.”

      “I like your determination.” He tucked the extinguisher in the crook of his arm and shot retardant into the heart of the fire. “It suits you.”

      “Losing is not an option.”

      “You keep saying that.” Instead of dying, flames writhed higher, snapping and popping as they consumed the tinder-dry fuel at an alarming rate.

      A few minutes more and it would be out of control. They realized it at the same time. Their gazes locked, adrenaline pumped into their veins. She already had her cell in hand, punching in 9-1-1, as he kicked away a few bales of untouched hay to stair-step up the stack. Heat licked his face as he emptied the canister.

      Still no good. Smoke doubled, turning black and thick. He coughed, barely able to see Millie through the haze.

      “They’re coming!” Her shadow moved closer. A pitchfork’s handle materialized out of the smoky cloud and he seized it. He held out his hand, felt her smaller, softer one grab hold and ignored the sudden kick in his cardiac area. As long as he didn’t think about his heart then he could deny all feelings. One tug and she landed on top of the stacked hay, coughing, too.

      He yanked the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and got to work. No words necessary, which suited him just fine as they worked together separating the fire from its fuel. He wished he wasn’t aware of every stab of her fork and every pitch of hay. He especially didn’t want to notice the lean, elegant lines of her arms as she worked, or the soft tendrils escaping her ponytail to frame her heart-shaped face.

      Don’t think about her face. He clamped his molars together and kept pitching. Suddenly her face was all he could think about. The slope of her nose, the adorable little chin, the satin feel of her skin against his hand.

      His cardiac region squeezed hard. No doubt about it, being close to her was a bad idea. Fine, so he cared for her. Hard not to like the woman she’d become, so strong, serious and determined. With her delicate jaw set, purpose carved into the flawless curve of her face, she stood boots braced and confident, pitching hay with military precision.

      “I found it!” Millie’s pitchfork held fresh flames and hay turning to ashes. “It’s down in here, but how deep is it?”

      “Hold on.” He dropped to his knees, heedless of the heat and the ashes raining down on him and grabbed the hem of her jeans. He covered it with both hands and heat seared through his gloves. Just a spark, nothing serious, but when he let go of the denim a chunk was missing. A black scar on her boot told him he’d caught it in time.

      “Thanks, Hunter. I didn’t even realize.” More forgiveness shone in her eyes.

      He hadn’t realized how much he needed to see it. He took the pitchfork from her and emptied the burning bits back onto the stack. Anywhere he threw it would start a second fire. “We can’t fight this with two pitchforks. It’s growing too fast.”

      “I know, I know. But I can’t just let it burn.”

      “I’m thinking.” Heat drove him back, and he tugged Millie with him.

      Getting down proved tricky. The fire roared, licking and popping, shooting red-hot embers into the air. He batted them away from his head and Millie’s face, took her hand and led the way down, kicking out footholds as he went. By the time his boots hit the floor, the fire doubled. Flames spat at him. Red-hot ashes swooped in the air, landing on the tinder-dry hay and igniting another patch.

      “It’s no good.” He leaned the pitchfork against the wall. “Get out of here, Millie.”

      “No. What about the milking parlor and the office? They’ll burn if the barn does.” Something landed on her head. A red-hot ash. “You should go. There’s too much smoke—”

      “Here.” He brushed the scorching ember out of her hair. Tender, when he could have been rough. “Do you really think I’d walk away?”

      Guilt hit her like a hammer. She knew he wasn’t talking about the past, but she couldn’t help remembering her worst fear. That if he’d known the truth, he would have done just that. Abandoning her when she’d needed him the most. She choked on smoke and lost sight of him.

      Keeping low, trying not to breathe in the black air, she raced to the loading bay, put her shoulder and weight into it and dragged the heavy wooden doors on their protesting wheels. The side of the barn opened, giving the smoke more places to escape.

      “Mom, you’re okay!” Simon skidded to a stop in the gravel. “I called the fire department, but I didn’t know where you were.”

      “Stay back, Simon. Go back to the house.”

      “No, I’m gonna help.”

      “You’ll help by staying out of the way, kiddo.” She grabbed her pitchfork and started pulling down burning bits of hay. Heat seared her face and burned her lungs. She had to shout over the fire’s roar. “It’s too dangerous here for you.”

      “But I—”

      A boom exploded