The Lone Cowboy of River Bend. Lori Connelly

       Do the Rolfes have a right to know?

      Alice had earned her trust, becoming a valued friend over these past difficult months. She’d confided something few people had ever known to her, the identity of Jemma’s father. The older woman promised never to reveal her secret but she wasn’t shy about voicing her opinion. She dearly loved the family who’d employed her for over two decades and believed they deserved to know. And Hannah’s daughter had the right to know them.

      Hannah felt torn. As time ticked down to when Sam was due to come for Alice, she struggled to sort out her feelings on the matter and failed. Her decision, or rather lack of one, gave her a nagging sense of failure. Hiding never solved anything. Yet that was what she was about to do.

      Alice pointing out the flaw in her plan hadn’t helped. It wouldn’t take long for the older woman to explain to Sam she wasn’t ready to leave, but given the distance he’d traveled, the man would likely spend the night. With no relatives she could claim and no friends beyond those on Redwing Farm, there was no place she and Jemma could stay longer than a few hours. Running off for a short time when he’d probably still be here when she returned made no sense. She’d lain awake for hours last night, debating to stay or not.

      Hannah blew out a breath. Maybe it was good Alice was late returning with the children. Her friend could be right. Sticking around, meeting Sam, and getting a measure of the man might be the wiser choice. Wind whipped her hair across her face. She started to raise a hand to brush it away then paused, a sound catching her attention.

      Listening, she stilled. A long moment passed but all Hannah heard was moaning from the house behind her as wind battered old boards. She wiped at her face with an impatient motion, clearing some strands of hair from her eyes before returning to the chore at hand.

      While Hannah battled to remove another sheet off the line, she inhaled the slight scent of lavender. Her lips curved as a pleasant memory tumbled through her mind. Michael had stumbled across her mother’s place on another blustery day a little over five years ago. He’d caught her outside, charming her eighteen-year-old self with comments about her sweet-smelling clothing and his smile.

      A soft sigh escaped her. Time had dulled the pain of losing him but sometimes a memory still brought the bittersweet echo of a dream lost upon awakening. With effort, Hannah pushed thoughts of Michael aside. She needed to focus on her present circumstances, not on what might have been. A decision had to be made and soon. Life didn’t pause in times of struggle or sorrow. A harsh lesson she knew well.

      In her life, Hannah had survived losing a number of people she’d loved: her parents, Michael, and recently Bessie. One day her best friend had been here, smiling, happy, talking about her plans for Redwing Farm, how it was going to be a famous breeding place, then the next day she was gone. How fragile life could be, even for a young, healthy woman, was no longer an abstract notion but an inescapable reality. A worry she had on occasion became a nagging concern after the tragedy. For comforting, Bessie’s boys had their grandmother, Alice, and their father lived. Jemma only had Hannah.

       If I die, who would care for my daughter?

      The sheet twisted, wrapping around one of her arms. Is it fair to keep Jemma from the Rolfes? Alice could be right. Hannah tugged loose of the linen then threw it into the basket near her feet. But what if Michael knew something she doesn’t? Maybe I-

      The scrape of footsteps disrupted her musing. Hannah turned, expecting to see someone familiar and gasped at the sight of the stranger stepping up to her. He was an imposing man, standing some inches taller and being quite broad about the chest and shoulders. In the diffused light on this overcast day, with the wide brim of his hat throwing his face in shadow, his expression was unfathomable. Under the weight of his dark, steady gaze, she hardly dared to breathe. They stood, still and silent, for a moment. Then he reached up and removed his hat.

      For an instant, the image of another man superimposed over the one before her. Confusion filled Hannah. She took a half step back, blinking hard. Michael? As soon as her thought formed, the illusion faded. She saw the stranger clearly again, noting any similarities between the two men were superficial at best.

      Their physical builds and coloring were much the same but there were obvious differences. Jemma’s father had green eyes that most often reflected inner amusement. This man’s hazel eyes were somber and the left one had a faded scar around it. Michael would have hated a mark on his skin. He’d been almost vain about his appearance, keeping his straight hair neatly trimmed and well combed. The stranger, on the other hand, reminded her of a trapper who’d lived near Ashwood for a time. His dark-brown hair had a thick wave to it, tumbling around his face and over his collar to his shoulders, giving him an untamed, wild look.

      Her gaze lowered, traveling over his full-length duster to the battered boots made for work. Michael had fancy footwear, shined for show. As she looked back up, Hannah noted well-worn blue jeans and a practical jacket visible between the open edges of oilskin. Both useful items of clothing Jemma’s father would have never worn. His words, a memory, whispered in her mind.

       No matter what, darling, a man has to look successful.

      The stranger held out a hand. She stared at it for a moment still mired in noticing differences. Michael’s hands had been soft, clean, and well kept, the hands of a gambler. This man’s skin appeared calloused and travel-dirty, revealing he worked hard and outdoors often.

      “Need help?”

      Hannah shook her head, not in answer to his question but because she didn’t know what to say.

      “You sure?”

      “I. uh.” What am I doing? Michael was gone, had been for years. Comparing the men was silly and pointless. Hannah pushed away her memories and focused on the stranger. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

      Her tone became a little squeaky as the likely identity of the man popped into her mind. Her heart beat faster. She’d met him once, years ago, and even though he didn’t look like Hannah, remembered this must be Sam Rolfe, showing up early.

      Should I tell him? Do I need to? Fear rushed through her veins. Hannah took a deep breath, gathering her composure. Maybe it’s enough that Alice knows. She gave him a polite smile. “You must be Sam.”

      “Sorry, no, I’m Nate.” His hand still extended to her, he moved closer. After a brief hesitation, she grasped it. The contact with his rough, cool skin sent an unexpected wave of warmth through her. “My brother couldn’t make it.”

      “Oh.” Which brother in particular didn’t matter, the man was a Rolfe. His arrival decided the fate of her plan. If she dashed off now it might well create the very interest in her and her daughter she wanted to avoid. She pulled her hand free, then remembered her manners. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Hannah Brooks.”

      Nate smiled. The sweet, slow movement of his lips sent awareness dancing along her nerves. “Miss Brooks.”

      The wind gathered strength, buffeting her. Loosened hair stung her eyes and whipped her face. Despite the weather, Hannah stood, rooted to the ground, staring at Nate until he lifted an eyebrow in silent question. Her cheeks burned. With a gesture to the basket beside her, she turned away from him.

      They wrestled the sheets into the large wicker container over the next several minutes. When they finished, Nate picked up the laundry, carrying it past his waiting horse and around the side of the house to set it on the porch. Hannah followed him slowly, taking some time to think over her behavior. She joined him near the steps almost a full minute later.

      “I apologize for my bad manners, Mr. Rolfe. We don’t get many visitors and you startled me.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      She shook her head, confused.

      “That I startled you, Miss Brooks.”

      “It’s all right, Mr. Rolfe.”

      His expression remained