Montana Wife. Jillian Hart

home her boys knew.

      She led the way to the kitchen, where the Regulator wall clock marked the time—a few minutes more until the final batch of bread was ready.

      “Mr. Kline wouldn’t give me the part.” Only fourteen, Kirk planted his feet like a man, held out his hands the way Kol would have done, a stance of dignity. “He said I couldn’t put any more charges on our account. He needed cash.”

      “How rude of him. Did you try the hardware—”

      “I went everywhere. They all said no. I can whittle a piece after I get done working tonight. We’ll make do.” Kirk fisted his hands, trying to look strong and dependable. “I’d best get out in the fields. I’ve got wheat to cut.”

      He was too young to be forced into a man’s responsibilities. Still, she was proud of him. “You won’t be harvesting alone. Mr. Lindsay was kind enough to bring his harvester.”

      “For what price?”

      “For free. Mr. Lindsay is doing us a fine thing, helping us.”

      “Pa’s friends should have done that. He paid his share for the new harvester Mr. Dayton bought and he—” Anger left him searching for words.

      It was the grief behind the anger, Rayna knew. It was a hard truth that in this world, people were not often just. Some people did rise to the occasion.

      “We have a true friend in Mr. Lindsay.” Careful of her bandages, she sliced off a thick piece of warm bread for Kirk to snack on. “The butter crock’s on the table. Wait, let me cut a few more to take with you. Perhaps Mr. Lindsay is hungry.”

      “I’ll fill the water jug on the way.” Kirk dug a knife from the sideboard’s top drawer. “Ma, I heard what Mr. Dayton said. How are we gonna do all the work without Pa? Will the bank take our house?”

      “Don’t you worry. Your father would never have put us in a bad position. You remember that. He loved us. We will manage just fine. I’ll find a way.”

      “I can help. I can take care of all the animals and the haying. I can do that by myself without any neighbors helping.”

      He took the bread slices she offered, wrapped in a clean cloth, and added them to the lunch pail he’d retrieved along with the butter crock. “I heard you crying last night, Ma. I know you’re sad. But don’t you worry. I’m a man. I can take care of you.”

      “I know you can.” Rayna resisted the urge to call him her sweetie and press a kiss to his brow.

      Her son was growing up. Emotion ached in her throat as she watched him sprint through the back door. The screen slammed shut in his wake, echoing through the kitchen.

      As if nothing had changed, she turned to the stove, mentally listing what she would need to prepare a big supper tonight. Kol would be hungry from working all day in the fields—

      The air rushed from her lungs. She leaned against the counter, dizzy. She’d thought of Kol out of habit, from years of cooking for him.

      He’s gone, Rayna. You have to accept it. You have to stop thinking that he’s next door or at town or on his way home. It should be simple, but it wasn’t. His chair was tucked in its place at the table. His favorite plaid shirt hung on the peg by the door.

      She fought the urge to snap up the garment and hug it tight, to breathe in his scent still clinging to the fabric. As if that could bring back all that she’d lost.

      Kol wouldn’t want her falling into pieces. He needed her to be strong, as she intended to do. For their boys.

      It’s what she would do, because she loved him. She’d put aside the sadness and find enough strength to finish up the last of the baking. The loaves were ready, plump and golden. She breathed in the delicious yeasty smell.

      The hot pad tumbled from her fingers as she realized what she’d done.

      She had baked an even dozen loaves, as if Kol would be here to eat them.

      “Whoa, boys.” Daniel hauled back on the thick double reins, drawing the lathered teams of Clydesdales to a stumbling stop.

      He ignored the thick grit in his mouth and his sandy thirst as he swiped streams of sweat from his face. He bent to unbuckle the horse collars from the traces.

      The crash of some wild animal plowing through the field rattled nearby heads of wheat. The forward team shied, turning in the leather bindings.

      “Hold on, boys, nothing to be afraid of.” He tightened the lead set of reins to bring down the big black’s head before he could get the notion to take off in a dead run and lead the other horses into revolting right along with him.

      His workhorses were a steady bunch. They ought to be tired enough that nothing short of cannon fire ought to spook them, so what was riling ’em up?

      A flash of color emerged from the golden stalks. He spotted a whitish-blond-haired boy, rangy and tall, and out of breath. Fear widened his eyes as he gazed up at the giant black trying to bolt.

      “I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean—”

      “Don’t worry about it, kid.” He laid a hand on the black’s shoulder, leaning between the traces to do it, a dangerous place to be.

      The mighty Clydesdale calmed, now that the big animal realized it was only a boy.

      “He’s not used to much company. It’s pretty quiet over at my place. Come on over. He won’t hurt you.”

      The older of Kol’s boys took a wide berth around the snorting gelding. “I brought water and something to eat.”

      Daniel took one look at the offered tin pail, battered from years of use, and shook his head. He was too hot to have any appetite. “Maybe when the sun goes down, but I’ll take the water jug. Is your name Kirk?”

      “Yessir.” He offered the heavy crock.

      Was it the one Rayna Ludgrin had been using? Daniel wondered as he pulled the cork. It had to be. There was a faint hairline crack at the mouth where it struck the earth when she’d dropped it.

      How beautiful she’d looked. How alluring. The sudden image, unbidden and unwanted, shot into his mind. The memory of the water trickling through her honey-blond hair remained. A forbidden thought, but there all the same.

      He closed his eyes as he drank. The cool rush of ginger water chased the grit from his tongue but did nothing to dispel her memory. Of her soft woman’s curves and her clean, lilac scent.

      His gut punched. Enough of that. It was wrong to think of her that way. He was a man. He had a man’s needs. What he didn’t need was a woman of his own. No. He was a man who lived alone by choice. There were times when he regretted the choice and the loneliness.

      That’s all this was. The lonesomeness of his life affecting him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched by anyone.

      Unless it was old Mrs. Johansson down the lane, when he’d stopped to help her corral her runaway milk cow. Was that seven months ago? He’d offered to fix the broken fence line for her. The elderly widow, hampered by rheumatism, had been so grateful, she’d baked him a chocolate cake and delivered it along with a grandmotherly hug the very next day.

      Seven months ago. Hell, nothing terrified him more than ties to another human being. Any ties.

      “Thanks for the water, kid.” He corked the jug and got back to work.

      “Uh, ’scuse me, mister.” The boy trailed after him, tall for his age, bucking up his shoulders like a man ready to face his duty. “It’s downright neighborly of you to lend a hand.”

      “It’s the right thing to do. Your father was a good man. He helped me more than once. I owe him.”

      “If I help you, then the work will go twice as fast.”

      “That it will.”