Patchwork Bride. Jillian Hart

      You don’t like him, Meredith, she reminded herself. It’s impossible. He’s impossible.

      “Oh, Meredith wasn’t one bit shy when they met up with us on the road,” Minnie burst out. “She and Shane talked practically the whole way home.”

      “Is this true?” Tilly studied her again, her curiosity greater and her scrutiny more intent.

      Heat burned her cheeks. She could feel her skin across her face tighten. Surely she was blushing. A dead giveaway. “I was polite to him, nothing more. I assure you of that.”

      “But you’re blushing.”

      “Because I feel uncomfortable.” That was true. Uncomfortable with the way Shane made her feel, with her hurt dignity and with this discussion. “You know I have plans that have nothing to do with finding a man to marry me right out of school. What would I want with an iterant horseman who is here for two months at the most and then he’ll leave, never to be seen again?”

      “I wasn’t thinking of that.” Tilly shrugged, her slender shoulders sagging a notch. The hint of sadness that overcame her was heart-wrenching. “I was wistful, that is all, hoping that true love would come your way, since it is sure not to be coming to mine.”

      “Don’t say that.” Meredith slipped onto her knees before her sister, gathering her slim hands in hers. “There is always hope for true love. Emmett is simply busy with his business.”

      “Oh, he was never truly interested in me. I was the one. It was all me. I mistook his politeness for more, that’s all.” Although her chin came up and she pasted on a smile, there was no disguising the hint of heartbreak on Matilda’s dear face, a sorrow she kept hidden. “A girl has to have wishes, or what else does she have?”

      “God. Family. Principles.” Mama thundered into the room. They had all been so engrossed they hadn’t heard her until she towered over them, glowering. “Some men are more appropriate to love than others, my girls. Now, why aren’t you studying? And, Matilda, shouldn’t you be downstairs sewing?”

      “Yes, Mama,” they muttered in unison, Meredith leaping to her feet, Tilly pushing off the bed and Minnie bouncing once before hopping two-footed to the floor.

      Meredith glanced over her shoulder, drawn by the lit windows gleaming in the dark evening, unable to stop a deep pinch of regret and, to be honest, a wish that Shane had not been Papa’s hired man. That they had parted ways at the driveway and he had kept riding so she would have been left with the romantic tale of their brief meeting, a moment in time when she could have forever believed in the man and his dimples, his good humor and character. She could have lived the rest of her days with the legend of their meeting and what she had believed him to be.

      Now that she knew the truth, there was no legend, no sweetness, no tale of romance. Just the broken pieces of what had never been.

      In the long gray shadows of dawn, Shane dragged on his boots by the back door, head pounding and eyes scratchy from what fell far short of a restful night’s sleep. He’d been fitful, unable to drift off on the top bunk of what was a comfortable feather tick, in clean muslin sheets and plenty of blankets. After a hard day’s ride he should have slept hard enough that only Braden’s rough shaking by the arm could have woken him.

      “Quit dragging your feet and let’s get the morning started.” Braden growled as he jammed one arm and then the other into his riding jacket. “We’ve got work to do.”

      Not that he minded work. No, he thrived on it. He loved every aspect of horse care from the shoveling to the riding. But this morning a dull ache stabbed his temples as he finished tying his boots, winced when the wind caught the door and smacked it against the wall. He grabbed his coat.

      Dawn hadn’t yet softened the night’s shadows, but already the horses were stirring, some more enthusiastic than others, nickering for attention and feed. Braden led the first animal out of her stall—a demure white mare—and cross-tied her in the breezeway.

      “Get to work.” Braden handed him a pitchfork and left him to take care of business.

      A lot must have been on his mind last night because it tried to surface as he worked. He dug the tines into the soiled straw and hiked it into a pile. He worked with quick, even strokes, lifting and turning the fork, making fast work of the roomy stall before moving onto the next. Was Meredith far from him mind?

      Not a chance.

      Worse than that, he couldn’t stop thinking of home. As merry golden light fell through the cracks in the walls and the double doors open on either end of the barn, he lost his battle to keep sad things buried. Maybe it was this place, he conceded, with its impressive stone-and-wood manor house. The no-expenses-spared stables and fine pedigreed horses reminded him of his family’s stable back home. Not that Father was a horseman by any means, but he took pride in owning the best driving horses in White Water County. Appearances were everything in his family.

      His guts still twisted up remembering the pressure he’d felt as the firstborn. The love he’d tried so hard to earn most of his childhood until he finally figured out that if you had to earn it, then it wasn’t love. Not the real thing, anyway.

      Although he’d been gone a while, he missed his family. Just because he couldn’t get along with them didn’t mean a lack of love. He thought of Grandmama and her kitchen full of delicious smells and her plain house full of blooming flowers. Mother with her narrow view of the world and her belief that she ought to control what she could of it. His younger brother who was always in and out of one scrape or another. Hard to imagine him buckling down to work in Father’s and Grandfather’s firm and being groomed for politics. He missed the boy’s constant ribbing and antics.

      Homesickness tugged at him. There were good things he missed—wrestling with his brother, riding with his dad, his mother’s cookies and his grandmother’s understanding. Sure, he missed home, although he did not want to be there.

      “Time to harness up the gray mare for the schoolgirls.” Braden’s announcement rang through the barn like a death knell.

      Shane grimaced. In truth, he’d been hoping to put that task off as long as possible. Nothing to be done about it but put aside his pitchfork, leave the rest to Braden and go in search of the old, placid mare.

      Sweetie greeted him with hopefulness. Recognizing the gleam in those big brown eyes, he searched his pockets for a sugar cube. She took it daintily from his palm, a polite girl. Hard not to like her. Her beauty wasn’t in long, perfect lines or the quality of her breeding, but in something far more important. He led her gently through the barn to the buggy he’d washed while his hands froze in yesterday’s last bit of daylight and slipped a collar over her neck.

      “Whatever happens—” a voice broke the silence behind him “—don’t let Meredith talk you into driving.”

      “Yes, Mr. Worthington.” He’d met the patriarch of the family late last night after all the barn work was done. He didn’t have an opinion of the man one way or the other. Worthington hadn’t been as off-putting as his wife and was far friendlier. Shane gave the mare a pat. “I expect the roads to be tough going, so I’d like to get an early start.”

      “Wise. I’ll inform the girls.” Robert hesitated like a man with something on his mind.

      Here it comes, Shane predicted. He buckled the gray mare into the traces, bracing himself for whatever warning or judgment the wealthy man was about to make. Most likely a threatening warning to stay away from the Worthington daughters.

      “It was hard to let Eli go. He had been a fine employee. Always took care of my horses and my girls. I never gave either of them a moment’s worry when they were in his care.” Robert cracked a smile, a masculine hint of Meredith’s, and he had the same stormy blue eyes.

      This job meant a lot to him so he would take the warning on the chin. Not let insult to injury show.

      “I can read between the lines,” Worthington went on. “The mud