Loner's Lady. Lynna Banning

her chickens, too. Even her tomato plants. She must get damn lonely out here all by herself.

      He resumed shoveling up the dirty straw until an unbidden thought drilled him between the eyes. You can’t afford to feel sympathy for her. That would be just plain stupid. He couldn’t afford to feel anything for her.

      He straightened abruptly and looked the plow horse in the eye. She’s got you eating out of her hand, hasn’t she, old fella?

      Immediately the animal’s ears flattened. No need to be jealous, now. Only one male on this spread is going to let that happen, and it’s not me.

      Ellen rested on the bale of clean hay until Mr. Flint motioned that he was ready to cut the baling wire and fork the straw into Tiny’s stall. With an awkward lurch she stood up and managed to hobble to the barn door. She felt light-headed and out of breath in the heat. She prayed she would make it back to the kitchen before she collapsed.

      The clank of metal told her Mr. Flint had finished and was returning the shovel and the pitchfork to the rack against the wall. She started across the yard, heard him shut the barn door and tramp after her.

      “Tired?” His voice jarred her concentration.

      “Yes. More than I thought I’d be.”

      He caught up to her and slowed his steps to stay by her side. “It’s hard work, learning a new way to walk.”

      Ellen shot him a glance. “Is that what you had to do?”

      “Up to a point. My leg didn’t heal right.” A tightening of his lips alerted her to an unease he kept well hidden.

      “Where were you when you hurt your leg?”

      “In a Confederate prison. Richmond. I escaped, but I had to rip the plaster off my leg to do it.”

      “Was it worth it? Your freedom in exchange for a crippled leg?”

      His face changed. “Wasn’t a choice, really. Grew me up damn fast.”

      “It must have been painful.”

      “Yeah. But if I’d stayed, they’d have broken the other one, too.”

      Ellen’s insides recoiled, but she said nothing. Instead she focused on keeping her balance as she lurched toward the back porch. Mr. Flint stayed at her elbow, but he let her negotiate the steps on her own. By the time they reached the kitchen, she was out of breath again.

      She sank onto a ladder-back chair, closed her eyes and fanned herself with her apron. Mr. Flint leaned over her.

      “You all right?”

      “Oh, right enough. Just winded.” When she opened her eyelids a glass of water sat on the table before her, and he had settled his long frame onto the chair across from her.

      At first she tried very hard not to look at his bare chest. After an awkward silence, she gave up. She liked looking at his tanned, well-muscled torso, even slicked with perspiration and smudged with dirt. It would be an experience to bake her cake with a half-dressed helper.

      “I’ll go wash up and get my shirt off the clothesline. Should be dry by now.”

      “I would offer to iron it for you, but…”

      “Doesn’t need ironing, Ellen. Don’t need to get fancied up to make a cake.”

      A flicker of regret teased at her.

      At the back door, he turned and held her gaze with an expression she couldn’t read. Not concern, exactly. Just a kind of awareness. Recognition.

      Ellen swallowed over a lump the size of an egg and stood to fetch her blue mixing bowl.