Hill Country Courtship. Laurie Kingery

redden at almost saying the phrase “wet nurse” to a lady.

      Apparently she didn’t like “foster mother” either, judging by the way she lifted her chin.

      “I will be little Hannah’s mother,” she said. “The only mother she will ever know.”

      Jonas thought he glimpsed a longing deep within those blue eyes, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to think too much about Maude’s softer qualities. Forcing an all-business tone to his voice, he said, “Very well, Miss Harkey. But being a mother to this baby must not interfere with your duties as my mother’s companion.”

      She nodded, gracious in victory. “It won’t.”

      “How soon can you be ready to leave?” he asked, hoping she would be that uncommon female who could pack quickly. If she was able to ready herself within the next hour, then with any luck, they might even reach Five Mile Hill Ranch before full dark, and he wouldn’t have to make another trip.

      “We will have to remain here in town for Hannah’s mother’s burial,” she told him. “I haven’t spoken to the undertaker yet, but the earliest that could possibly take place would be tomorrow morning. So we could possibly return with you tomorrow afternoon.”

      “Possibly? Miss Harkey, I think I’ve more than met you halfway by agreeing to accept the baby and her—Mrs. Benavides,” he snapped. “My mother’s need for a companion is urgent and cannot brook any delay. I fail to see why it’s necessary for you to remain for the burial of a girl you barely knew rather than coming to the ranch to begin work immediately.”

      “Because April Mae Horvath—that’s the name of the girl who died—has no one, Mr. MacLaren,” she said. “That’s why. Her parents disowned her when they learned she was in the family way, and her sweetheart abandoned her. Those of us who spent the past few days caring for her...we were strangers, but we were all she had. And someday, I must be able to look my daughter in the eye and tell her that her birth mother wasn’t put in the ground with no one present but the preacher and the grave digger.”

      There was a steely resolve in her tone that brooked no argument. He rose. “Very well, Miss Harkey. I’ll send a wagon and one of my men to collect you, the others and your effects tomorrow afternoon. You and Mrs. Benavides should be ready to go. Good day to you.” He nodded to her, then found his way to the door, feeling her gaze on him until it closed behind him.

      Maude Harkey was a troublesome, headstrong female and no mistake. He felt as if battle had just been joined and he had not come out the victor. At best, they had fought to a draw and then postponed further hostilities for another day. He had to admire her ethics, though. Not many women would consider it their moral duty to attend the burial of a girl they’d only known for a few days, especially one who’d been foolish enough to believe a man’s empty promises and end up with child.

      He considered taking a room in the hotel and waiting for her in town, but knew instinctively that spending some twenty-four hours cooling his heels in a rented room would make him restless as a caged wolf. The thought of paying good money for a lumpy, strange bed didn’t appeal to him, either, and he wasn’t the sort to while away the hours drinking whiskey and gambling in a saloon.

      Going back to the ranch and sending Hector with the buckboard the following day would be better. Jonas would have time to prepare his mother for the arrival of not only her new companion, but two unexpected additional people. Maybe this way Coira MacLaren would have a chance to vent the worst of her spleen before her new companion’s arrival.

      There was the added benefit that Jonas wouldn’t have to force himself to make conversation with Maude Harkey on the long drive to Five Mile Hill Ranch. There was something about the woman that got under his skin—and that was a dangerous symptom. He had no intention of letting a woman muddle his head ever again.

      Excepting, of course, his irritable, irrepressible, unignorable mother, whose endless litany of complaints echoed through his mind night and day.

      Did Maude Harkey wonder why he put up with his mother’s difficult behavior, or did she just assume he paid as much attention to the Fifth Commandment—to honor one’s parents—as much as the others? She’d wonder more after she met the woman, that was sure.

      As his mother’s only child, it fell to him to care for Coira MacLaren. He was indebted to her for his existence—in more ways than one. His debt to his mother was too great to leave her to fend for herself. He was a man grown and then some, but he’d never forget he owed the woman his very survival. He’d keep her secret—their secret—forever.

      He would not shirk his duty to ensure her well-being in return, even if the weight of the load sometimes felt like more than he could bear. He had no choice but to carry it alone. He had no siblings living to help him, and there was not—would never be—a wife to share his life, to halve his burdens and double his joys.

      What had happened in the past had kept him from marriage, both before the war and since. He wouldn’t subject a wife to the kind of man he was likely to become as his father’s son.

      * * *

      Juana found Maude beating the kitchen rug, which she’d hung on the line, as if she meant to smash it into clumps of thread. Particles of dust flew from the abused rug at the ferocity of her blows.

      “Maude, what are you doing? I expected you to come back upstairs and tell me what the man said. Instead I find you trying to murder a rug, no?”

      Maude turned to the young widow, realizing she was out of breath and that her right shoulder ached with the exertion. Perhaps she had been beating the rug just a hair too vigorously. “N-no,” she panted, but couldn’t smother a chuckle at the thought of murdering a rug.

      “Oh, Juana, h-he just makes me so angry! Not only did he expect us to drop everything and leave with him this very day, but after I explained that out of decency I needed to attend April Mae’s burial first, he said he’d send a wagon to come and collect us tomorrow afternoon—as if we were sacks of flour! Honestly, if I didn’t need to provide a home for little Hannah, I’d tell him he could take his wagon and drive right off a cliff!”

      She wasn’t about to tell Juana how MacLaren had bridled at the idea of taking her and baby Hannah, too. Juana might well refuse to go if she felt that she would not be welcomed at the ranch—and who could blame her? Then the whole plan would fall apart. A home for Hannah would do no good if there was no way to see to the child’s needs at the ranch.

      Juana studied her, worry furrowing her brow. “Mi amiga, you have the temper of a true pelirroja, a redhead. And you are overheated,” she said, reaching out to brush a red curl that had escaped from Maude’s coiffure away from her damp forehead. “Come sit down on the porch for a moment and I will fetch us some lemonade. Then you can tell me all about the man and what he said. I would like to know more about where we will be going tomorrow. Remember, you only told me we might be going to live on a ranch.”

      Maude felt her fury slipping away like an ebbing tide in the face of Juana’s calm. She did owe her new friend an explanation. With a guilty start, she realized she had not even asked Juana if she would mind the additional duties, on top of Hannah’s care, before offering her assistance to the housekeeper. “Is Hannah asleep?”

      Juana nodded. “Mrs. Meyer said she would listen for her. I will fetch the lemonade and then you will tell me all, yes?”

      “Yes,” Maude agreed. “And thank you, lemonade sounds lovely.”

      And it was lovely, indeed, when Juana returned with the two glasses moments later. After a few refreshing sips to restore her calm, Maude began her tale.

      “He sounds proud as a Spanish grandee,” Juana said sometime later, when Maude had told her the full story, from their meeting at the Spinsters’ Club barbecue to MacLaren’s final words about sending a man with a wagon to “collect” them.

      “And yet he tolerates his mother behaving like a tyrant, apparently.”

      Juana