Patchwork Bride. Jillian Hart

horseback, but her gaze found and stayed on only one of them. He wore a black Stetson, a black coat, denims and boots. Dark hair tumbled over his high forehead to frame blue eyes. Awareness crashed through her hard enough to wobble her knees. It was like she knew the man, as if she had known him somewhere before.

      “Good afternoon, ladies.” He tipped his hat, amusement curling up the corners of his mouth. “Looks like you have a problem.”

      A problem. Meredith opened her mouth, but nothing happened. No words, not a sound, not even air. Her entire head had gone blank, as if she had forgotten every word in the entire English language. She straightened, the mud sucking at her shoes and clinging to her skirts, and swiped at that curl with one hand.

      “Yeah, we’re stuck!” Minnie spoke up.

      “So I see,” he drawled, just short of mocking, as he dismounted, his boots landing with a splatter in the shallow end of the mud hole. “April is going out like a lion. We’ve been battling hard rains all over the territory.”

      “Where you are from?” They weren’t locals. Angel Falls was a small enough town that she would have seen him before. His was a face she would never forget. Was he passing through or had he come to work on the new railroad grade up north?

      “I’m from Virginia.” Blue eyes twinkled handsomely as he plunged closer, disregarding the mud sticking to his boots. He gestured to the much older man still mounted behind him. “Braden is from Texas.”

      “You’re both far from home.” A strange skitter of sensation traveled down her nape. One of warning, or of something else? It didn’t feel comfortable and she took a step back. Something felt out of place. Should she refuse his help?

      He stalked closer, impressively strong. Even wearing a coat, he gave an impression of power and confidence. There was no mistaking he was a man who worked hard for his living. He had an edge to him. It was in the day’s growth shadowing his granite jaw and the sense of worldliness he carried easily on his wide shoulders.

      “I’m Shane Connelly.” He tipped his black hat, revealing more of his face. What struck her most was the chiseled high cheekbones that gave him character. With his dark blue eyes, straight no-nonsense nose and hard slash of a mouth, he could have been a dime-book hero come to life. A down-on-his-luck man of principle who was capable of defeating any bad guy.

      There she went, being far too fanciful again. The trouble was that she read too much. Was it her fault that men were better in books than in real life? He was obviously trouble on two feet, and she could well imagine what Mama would say if she were to learn she was accepting such a man’s help.

      “I’m Minnie.” Her little sister spoke up, clearly interested by this turn of events. “Can you get our buggy out?”

      “I plan to try.” He swaggered over to inspect the front wheels and as he bent, his coat shifted, revealing an inlaid silver belt buckle and a gun.

      She gulped. He was armed, a rarity for those riding these peaceful country roads. Proof the man was not as civilized as seemed.

      “You managed to get the wheels wedged in good.” He straightened, shooting her a breezy grin bracketed by dimples. “It might take some muscle to get this out. Good thing for you Braden and I came along.”

      “I suppose so.” She took a step back, her pulse thudding in her ears as he approached. My, he was certainly tall and imposing. She bumped into the buggy’s fender. She wasn’t entirely sure she should let them stay. “Thank you for going to the trouble.”

      “Oh, we don’t mind.” He went toward her like a predator scenting prey, his Stetson slanted at a jaunty angle, his chiseled jaw rock-solid. He didn’t blink. It didn’t seem as if he breathed.

      “But I do.” If she was going to be a woman of independence, then she ought to solve the problem herself. After all, she intended to be driving her own buggy working for the Upriver School District this summer, God willing. She could not depend on a rider happening along to help her then, could she? No. Besides, she didn’t like the look of these two strangers. With their trail dust and unshaven jaws, they could be anyone—drifters, thieves, escaped convicts from the territorial prison.

      Fine, they did not look that disreputable, but there was something amiss about Shane Connelly. “I’m not used to being beholden to strangers.”

      “Then you might want to keep the buggy wheels up on the grass and out of the mud hole next time.”

      “And risk turning over in the ditch?” As if she hadn’t thought of that for herself. She didn’t remember asking for his advice or for the way he bent to inspect the rigging. “I know how to drive.”

      “I see that.” A friendly smile flirted along with his dimples. A hint of kindness, not meant to make her feel chastised or defensive.

      She wanted to be defensive for some peculiar reason. “For your information, my cousin was blinded and her parents killed when their buggy overturned. I was trying to be prudent.”

      “Then the mud was the right decision.” Good humor beamed across his granite face, softening the lean planes and hard angles and turning his eyes an arresting midnight blue.

      “You have a smear on your face.”

      “I do?” She gulped, watching as the distance between them began to vanish. He stopped a hand’s breadth from her. My, but he was close. As he unfolded a clean handkerchief from his pocket, time screeched to a halt. Something deep within her shouted to turn and flee while she could, but she did not move as the piece of muslin brushed against her cheek.

      Should it surprise her that his touch was gentle? She’d never been this close to a man her parents did not know. Her cheek tingled from the dab and scrape of the cloth. He folded his crisp white handkerchief and rubbed again at her cheekbone, close enough that she could smell the rain on his coat. Near enough that she could see the individual stubbles of his unshaven jaw and the threads of gold in his breath-stealing blue eyes.

      Should she be noticing such things? Aloof, he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and took several steps back. Now that he was not so near, the breathless feeling should go away, shouldn’t it? Oughtn’t her pulse rate return to normal?

      “I had best see to your buggy, miss. You need me to carry you over to the grass?” His baritone held a smiling quality as he took another step back, his gaze never leaving her face.

      An odd feeling, being peered at like that, as if she were something worthy to be looked at. Vaguely she remembered the buggy and her little sister somewhere nearby watching, cleared her throat and tried to do the same with her cluttered mind. “No, I’m not afraid of a little mud.”

      “A little? You look like you were in a rolling contest with a pig and won. No offense, miss.”

      “None taken.” Why was she laughing? She looked down helplessly at the drying mud on her light yellow silk overskirt. Mama would definitely get the vapors when she saw this. “I feel as if I should lend a hand. At this point, I cannot get any muddier.”

      “Don’t be too sure.” He knuckled back his hat, revealing dark brown hair that was thick, untamed and a little too long for decent fashion. “I was wrong about you. At first look I mistook you for a vain, helpless miss, but you are clearly a country girl.”

      “Surely I am at heart.” There was no way he could know how wrong he was. She worried that no matter how hard she tried to be otherwise, she would always be Robert and Henrietta Worthington’s daughter, expected one day to be the perfect wife living an impeccable life of giving parties, raising well-mannered children and upholding the family’s fine reputation. She feared her dreams of teaching children would never be realized.

      “It’ll only take a moment to hitch up.” He whistled to his horse.

      The wind gusted, batting the troubling lock of hair back into her eyes. She swiped at it, wondering how she must look standing in the mud with her hair a tumble and her skirts spattered enough to hide the intricate shirring