The Horseman's Frontier Family. Karen Kirst

to herself wasn’t entertaining in the slightest.

      Surveying the neatly stacked walls, she touched a hand to the wood, careful not to get a splinter. A rather long structure, the stable would be big enough for six or seven stalls. Four horses currently occupied the corral.

      “You aren’t planning a typical homestead here, are you? Most settlers get seeds in the ground before starting on shelters, yet I’ve seen no sign of turned earth.” She pivoted toward him.

      Head bent, he said between bites, “My plans are for a horse ranch. Ranching is all I know.”

      “How do you plan to feed yourself? Don’t you like vegetables?”

      He raised his head at that, and his cool gray eyes were flat. “I don’t have a family to worry about. It’s just me. I could care less what I eat, as long as it’s filling.”

      Evelyn was suddenly curious why he didn’t have a wife. Why there weren’t smaller versions of Gideon Thornton running around. She knew better than to ask such a personal question. Even if she hadn’t glimpsed pain in him, she recognized his desire for privacy.

      “I will say,” he continued as his spoon scraped the bowl, “this is one fine stew. You’re a good cook.”

      Despite the fact he’d already established his low standards where food was concerned, Evelyn couldn’t ignore the pleasure his simple praise evoked. Such compliments were rare. Sure, her brothers grunted their thanks as they dug into the meals she prepared, but actual words of affirmation were few and far between.

      Smoothing damp palms along her skirt front, she lowered her gaze to the reddish dirt at her feet. “Thank you.”

      “No, thank you for sharing with me.”

      He rose and walked toward her, every step a warning striking her brain. Danger. Keep away. Any kind word at this point in her life was a heady thing. Coming from this man, it had the power to generate traitorous thoughts. His rugged appeal, the restrained energy rippling along his muscles, the scent of leather and campfire clinging to his skin and hair drew her.

      Gideon Thornton is off-limits.

      As he transferred the empty bowl to her hands, his warm, calloused fingers skimmed her knuckles. Sizzling heat penetrated bone and flesh. When she imagined what those hands would feel like cradling her face, she knew she had to act fast.

      “You’ve done a remarkable job here. It’s good to know my animals will have a solid shelter once you’re gone.”

      Breath hissed between his teeth. His jaw hardened to stone.

      Bull’s-eye. She was safe.

      “I’m not the one who’ll be leaving,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “This is my land. I’ll do whatever it takes to hold on to it.”

      “Whatever it takes? Even if that means circumventing the law?”

      His hands fisted at his sides, he closed his eyes. His lips moved silently, as if he were ordering himself to be calm. Then his eyes bored into her. “You and your brothers can spread all the poisonous lies you want about me, but I know I’m no liar. I’m not a thief. And I don’t have to prove myself to you or anyone else in this town. The judge’s opinion is the only one that matters.”

      Evelyn attempted to absorb his words. Passion rang in his voice. Sincerity blazed in his eyes. He was either an adept actor...or he was telling the truth. And if he wasn’t lying, then someone else was.

      Chapter Six

      Long after darkness had descended and Walt had drifted off to sleep, Evelyn reclined beside the fire, gazing up at a blue-black sky studded with brilliant stars, her thoughts unsettled. Conflicted. If Gideon was telling the truth, that meant someone in her family was lying.

      While she couldn’t discount his conviction, the man was a complete stranger. She knew next to nothing about him. What she did know came secondhand, and none of it was positive. She loved and trusted her brothers. And Drake... Well, he wasn’t around to tell his story, was he?

      Above the sound of the wood crackling and spitting came a soft thwack, thwack. Easing to a sitting position, she cast about for the source. What was that noise? It came again from the direction of Gideon’s tent. She stood and, tucking her blouse into her waistband, peeked in on Walt. He looked peaceful as he slept, his hands nestled underneath his cheek. She wavered in the doorway. Should she ignore the sound?

      Thwack.

      Now that her curiosity was roused, there would be no rest until she discovered whether the cause was man or beast. Preferably not beast.

      On her right moonlight glinted off the ribbon of trickling water. On the far side of the stream, impenetrable blackness cloaked the rolling fields. Up ahead the fire cast orange fingers on the elms and cottonwoods towering over his tent. There was no sign of him.

      “Gideon?” She spoke quietly, praying he wasn’t already asleep. Tiptoeing closer, she noticed the tent flaps were still up. His pallet was empty.

      When the sounds came again in rapid succession, she ventured past the copse a little ways. A kerosene lamp swinging from a low branch outlined Gideon’s unmistakable form. Slung across his back was a quiver of arrows, and in his hand he held a sleek bow. The ankle-high grass swallowed up her footfalls as she approached him. She watched wide-eyed as he brought the bow up and, anchoring it against his shoulder, fired off a shot at the paper target attached to the trunk twenty yards away. The tip sank into the wood like a knife sinking into butter. It joined five others in the black circle.

      Lowering the bow, he twisted his torso in her direction. “Has no one ever told you not to sneak up on an armed man?”

      Ignoring his forbidding expression, she shrugged. “I wasn’t worried.” Just as he’d known she was in the barn earlier, her presence here hadn’t gone unnoticed. His senses were honed to perfection.

      She took in his rumpled appearance—shirttails hanging out, buttons undone to reveal a white undershirt stretched across his chest and flat stomach—and decided sleep had evaded him, too. Shortly after their exchange at lunch, he’d hitched up his wagon and left without a goodbye. He must’ve visited the barber in town, for his hair was neatly trimmed and his cheeks smooth, the spicy scent of shaving cream teasing her nostrils. Faint lamplight cast his features in sharp relief, mysterious angles and shadows. His mouth looked like sculpted marble. Perfectly proportioned yet hard and cold and emotionless.

      Suppressing a shiver, she forced her feet to approach him. Nodding at the target, she said, “You’re good. You make it seem effortless, but I’m guessing it requires an inordinate amount of skill.”

      He stalked to the tree and removed the arrows. Replacing all but one in the quiver, he retraced his steps and stopped in front of her. “It’s a good tension reliever.” His wolflike gaze roamed her face, then her hair, which she’d released from its pins for the evening. The soft waves spilled over her shoulders. “You look tense. Why don’t you give it a try?”

      She instinctively retreated a step. “I don’t think so.”

      Trying new things meant the possibility of failure. She’d learned not to risk the condescension. The stinging criticism. Easier to stick with what she knew and those tasks she could perform well.

      With a terse nod, he said, “Suit yourself.”

      Then he pivoted and, without hesitation, fired off an arrow so fast her eyes could barely track it. Gideon moved with fluid grace and strength, toned muscles working together in a cohesive sequence born of hours of practice.

      “Who taught you to do that?” She couldn’t mask her awe.

      “Lars.”

      “But you haven’t known him very long. Your level of skill...”

      “I practice a lot,” he murmured without looking at her. Pacing away, he lifted a jar of water to his