Whitefeather's Woman
Deborah Hale
Jane Harris, on the run fr om life back East, hoped only to survive. Still, everything in this breathtaking territory was overwhelming–including John Whitefeather, a blue-eyed Cheyenne leader who'd awakened her to womanly desire.John Whitefeather knew what it was like to be an outsider. That was why he was so drawn to Jane. But this shy violet was blossoming into a passionï ¬ ‚ ower with roots deep in Montana soil, and maybe deeper still in his lonely heart….
Stories of family and romance
beneath the Big Sky!
Did she dare bare her ugly past and risk turning him away forever?
“You know,” John murmured, “the first time you got me talking about what happened to my folks, it was almost like living it over again. I was angry at you for making me remember.”
She nudged her horse a little closer to his. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. What I’m trying to say is, I’ve thought about it since. Talked a little about it. Each time it gets a little easier, and I never would have found that out if you hadn’t made me speak of it the first time.”
Jane’s heart seemed to swell within her until she wondered how her small body could contain it. Here was something more she could give this man who offered her so much. She could give him balm for his wounded heart, because she, too, had known hurt and bereavement….
Whitefeather’s Woman
Deborah Hale
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEBORAH HALE
After a decade of tracing her ancestors to their roots in Georgian-era Britain, Golden Heart winner Deborah Hale turned to historical romance writing as a way to blend her love of the past with her desire to spin a good love story. Deborah lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, between the historic British garrison town of Halifax and the romantic Annapolis Valley of Longfellow’s Evangeline. With four children (including twins), Deborah calls writing her “sanity retention mechanism.” On good days, she likes to think it’s working.
Deborah invites you to visit her personal website at www.deborahhale.com, or find out more about her at www.eHarlequin.com.
To my editor, the phenomenal Margaret Marbury,
who trusted me with John, Jane
and their wonderful story.
And to two of the most gifted writers
of American historical romance,
Cheryl St.John and Carolyn Davidson,
from their adoring fan.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
May 1897, Whitehorn, Montana
A frontier saloon was just about the last place on earth Jane Harris had ever expected, or wanted, to find herself. Why, Mrs. Endicott and her Ladies’ Temperance Society back in Boston would have been properly horrified. They’d have been more horrified still by the knowledge that Jane had stolen and sold a brooch of Mrs. Endicott’s to get here.
The jarring notes of a tinny piano pummeled Jane’s throbbing head, and the reek of raw spirits and tobacco smoke made the flesh at the back of her throat constrict. If she’d had anything to eat in the past twenty-four hours, the stink, the noise and her own overwrought nerves might have conspired to make her violently ill.
Perhaps it had been a harsh blessing that she’d run out of money for food back in Omaha.
“Kin I pour ya a drink, little lady?” bellowed the man behind the bar, his voiced laced with genial mockery.
Jane gasped, her heart hammering against her corset like the pistons of a runaway steam engine.
“N-no thank you, sir.” She raised her voice louder than she’d ever spoken in her life, to make herself heard above the “music” and the babble of voices. “I’d be most obliged if you’d point out the foreman of the Kincaid ranch to me. The gentleman at the telegraph office told me I might find him here.”
As she turned to speak to him, the bartender flinched. At the sight of her face, most likely. She’d hoped the bruises and cuts would have healed by the end of her long trip West. They must still have a ways to go if her appearance distressed a man who worked in such a rough establishment.
“Yep, ma’am. I seen him come in a while back and he ain’t left that I know of.” The bartender squinted through the haze of smoke around the cavernous room, with its sinister shadows and a huge, lowering buffalo head mounted behind the bar.
Raising a gnarled finger, he pointed to one particularly murky corner. “That’s John Whitefeather, over there. He don’t come in here much as a rule, but when he does it’s always off by hisself.”
Jane heard nothing after the bartender spoke the name. Whitefeather? An Indian! Her knees commenced to tremble beneath her skirts and petticoats.
Back in Boston, Jane’s sole dissipation had been reading Western dime novels from Beadle’s Library. Along with stories of legendary gunslingers like Jack Spade, they often featured lurid accounts of Apache atrocities. Were there any of that fierce tribe this far north? Perhaps she was about to find out.
“Thank you…sir. I—I appreciate your assistance.” As much as a condemned prisoner appreciated a deputy’s “assistance” to climb the scaffold.
Jane tried to smile at the man, but between her mounting agitation and the still-healing gash on one side of her mouth, she didn’t make a very good job of it.
Step by halting step, she crossed the saloon floor, painfully conscious of curious, predatory eyes following her movements. Had young Daniel felt this way walking through the lions’ den? Probably not, for Daniel had been a man and he’d had the Lord on his side. With the sin of her desperate theft weighing on her conscience, Jane was certain she’d left any slight protection of the Almighty far behind her in New England.
John Whitefeather sat at a corner table, all alone, his back to the wall, as though he did not care to turn it upon the denizens of the Double Deuce. The bartender’s pointing finger must have alerted the man that she wished to speak with him, yet he did not rise or otherwise acknowledge her approach.
Reason assured Jane that the Kincaids’ foreman was hardly apt to pull out a tomahawk and scalp her in the middle of a crowded saloon. But her tautly stretched nerves refused to unwind for logic. She stopped before his table and stood like a convicted felon in front of a hanging judge. For a wooden nickel she’d have turned and fled, but she’d been told the Kincaids lived miles outside of town. John Whitefeather might be her only means of reaching them.
For perhaps the hundredth time since stealing out of Boston, Jane wished she’d been able to spare the money for a wire to advise her new employers that she was on her way. Mrs. Kincaid might have come to the depot to meet her, or at least have sent her a less alarming escort to the ranch.
“A-are you Mr. Whitefeather, the Kincaid foreman?”
The man gave a slow nod. Jane sensed his gaze sweeping over her, but unlike the bartender, he betrayed no sign that her battered face affected him.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” His voice, a soft rumble with a queer melodic inflection, was barely audible over the raucous hubbub of the saloon.
“I’m Jane Harris, Mr. Whitefeather.” She tried to sound competent and businesslike to convince him of her identity. Instead, her words came out stiff and prissy. “I’ve arrived from Boston to work for Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid, taking care of their boys.”
Her syllables began to trip over one another in their haste, and she had to pause frequently to gasp for breath. “I regret that I was unable to send a wire to announce my arrival. I’d be most obliged if you could arrange my transportation to the ranch.”
He muttered something to himself, but what Jane could hear made no sense to her. Was he speaking some Indian dialect?
Draining the contents of a tall bottle, he rummaged in his pocket and tossed several coins onto the table. Then he scooped up his hat, pushed back his chair and stood.
Jane’s last sound nerve shattered.
He was so big. John Whitefeather towered over her, his shoulders alarmingly broad under an enormous duster coat that fell almost to his ankles. And his hands… Jane nearly swooned, imagining the horrible damage they could inflict on a woman’s vulnerable face and body. Emery Endicott had been a runt compared to this giant. Before she’d run away to Montana, though, her fiancé had managed to beat her badly enough to put her in the infirmary.
“I expect you’d better come along with me, ma’am.”
Any man who spoke so softly and with so respectful a tone could never harm her. Jane didn’t really believe it, but the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. He brushed past her, a man-of-war in full sail, while she bobbed along in his wake like a dinghy swamped by his bow wave.
To her surprise, John Whitefeather held the saloon door open for her like the most fastidious gentleman. Squinting against the bright setting sun, Jane stepped outside onto the boardwalk that ran in front of the businesses on Main Street. The air was dry and dusty, but otherwise clean. The rowdy noise of the Double Deuce immediately muted to a faint echo.
Behind her, John Whitefeather’s voice rumbled, ominous, yet absurdly reassuring in its hushed tone. “Are your bags at the stage office here, or still back at the rail depot in Big Timber? Either way, we probably ought to leave them be until you’ve talked to Caleb and Ruth.”
She spun around to face him. “I, er, don’t have any bags.”
Before she had time to lose her nerve, or recover her scruples, she rattled off the lie she’d carefully rehearsed all the way from the Atlantic.
“One of the trains got derailed just outside Chicago, you see. We passengers were thrown around the car, which is how I came by my…injuries. Then the baggage car took fire. I believe a lamp fell and burst when we went off the tracks. My trunk and both my valises were burned to a cinder, but of course I was relieved to have escaped with my life.”
Quite against her will, the inflection of Jane’s voice rose at the end of her account, as though questioning whether her listener was prepared to swallow this barely probable tale.
“That’s too bad about your train, ma’am. Do you have any money to tide you over?” He took a few long strides down the boardwalk that abutted the false-fronted buildings of Main Street—a hardware store, a butcher shop and an alarming number of saloons.
Jane scurried to keep up with him. “M-money? What makes you ask?”
Why she clasped her reticule to her bosom, Jane wasn’t sure. It contained nothing more valuable than a pair of damp, crumpled handkerchiefs, the pawn ticket for Mrs. Endicott’s brooch and a newspaper cutting of the Kincaids’ original employment notice.
“I’ll be getting room and board working for the Kincaids, and they’ll be paying me wages. I can get by until then.”
John Whitefeather stopped in his tracks and glared at her with a sullen severity that almost brought tears to her eyes.
Oh dear. Had she offended him by implying she feared he might steal from her?
He didn’t raise his voice. If anything, it grew quieter. The temperature of it dropped, too, until Jane fancied his breath frosted the air. “Forget it.”
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the sun’s glare. At last she was able to take in more about the Kincaids’ foreman than his general shape and size.
Beneath a battered brown hat with a broad brim, John Whitefeather’s coal-black hair was tied back with a leather cord and cascaded down past his shoulder blades. He had skin the color of oiled teakwood, with the dark shadow of whiskers on his firmly hewn jawline. Above high, jutting cheekbones blazed deep-set eyes the startling blue of an infinite Montana sky.
His fierce, intensely masculine beauty unsettled Jane almost as much as his height had. What a mousy, battered eyeful he must be getting by comparison.
Heaving a sigh from deep within his vast frame, John Whitefeather made a subtle movement as though adjusting an awkward load upon his powerful shoulders. He untied the reins of a tall, white-spotted horse from the hitching post, then started across the hard-packed dust of Whitehorn’s main street with his mount in tow. Not knowing what else to do, Jane followed.
Over his shoulder the Kincaids’ foreman called, “I reckon we’d better get you back to the ranch so we can sort all this out.”
Sort what out? What was there to sort? Even if she’d had breath left to speak, Jane would not have dared ask. But she disliked the sound of it. She’d come West in answer to the Kincaids’ letter, to work for them. Far from Boston. Far from Emery. Far from danger.
Except that Whitehorn, Montana, didn’t seem very far from danger at the moment. Was there a safe haven for her anywhere in the world? Jane wondered. If there was, she’d barter her very soul to find it.
John Whitefeather would have bartered a month’s pay to wriggle out of the situation in which he now found himself.
Why had he gotten saddled with Miss Jane Harris from Boston and all her problems? He seldom came into town. When he wasn’t back at the ranch or out on the range, he spent most of his time at Sweetgrass. With the help of his brother-in-law, Caleb Kincaid, he’d purchased that parcel of land over a year ago. He’d settled a group of his Cheyenne kinsmen there, to keep them out of a government reservation.
With bitter amusement, John wondered how Miss Jane Harris would react if he took her back to Sweetgrass instead of to Caleb’s ranch. Scream her lungs out or faint dead away? With one foot in the world of ve’ho’e, the white man, and the other in the realm of the Tsitsistas, John knew Miss Harris had far less to fear from his people than they had to fear from the likes of her.
Outside Briggs Livery, he spun around and thrust Hawkwing’s reins into the stranger’s tiny gloved hand. “Hang on to him while I go see about hiring a wagon.”
By the look on her face, he might as well have given her a writhing rattler to hold. What in blue blazes was a woman like this doing in Montana?
“He won’t hurt you,” John barked. “And I’ll only be a minute.”
Ignoring her doubtful looks on both counts, he turned away, blowing out an impatient breath as he entered the livery stable. Ordinarily, he avoided the place, and he resented the woman for making it necessary to come here.
“Afternoon, Mr. Briggs.” He nodded to the liveryman, who also doubled as the town undertaker. “I’d like to hire a wagon. Doesn’t have to be big or pretty. I can get it back to you by this time tomorrow.”
Lionel Briggs had a long, mournful face that somehow befitted his second occupation. He looked his customer up and down. “What’cha need it for? I’ll have to have a deposit.”
A ripple of heat crept up John’s neck, speeding toward his face. He knew Lionel’s father had been killed in a skirmish with some Pawnee decades ago, yet John never got used to the liveryman’s hostile suspicion of anything and everything to do with the native people of the Plains. John’s own parents and younger brothers had been massacred at the hands of white men, yet he didn’t treat all ve’ho’e with embittered distrust.
At least not once he got to know them.
He jerked his head toward the street outside. “Lady just got into town from back East. She needs to see Ruth and Caleb, and I’m the only one around to fetch her out there.”
He felt in his pockets. Damn! He’d left his last penny on the table at the Double Deuce to pay for his sarsaparilla. “Can’t you just bill it to Caleb?”
Lionel Briggs made a noncommittal gurgle deep in his throat and scratched the stubble on his chin.
“S’pose I could.” His tone left no doubt that he didn’t much like the idea. “Don’t reckon as I’d have anything to suit, though.”
John had swallowed as much as he was prepared to. He had never done violence to a white man in his life, unless you counted the time at residential school when he’d kicked one of his teachers in the shin. But he’d accepted the fact that some ve’ho’e would never alter their opinion of his people.
He shrugged and turned to leave. “It’s your business if you want to turn away customers, Mr. Briggs.”
“It is my business, and don’t you ferget it, Whitefeather!” the liveryman huffed. “Just ’cause you married your sister off to a rich rancher don’t make you the boss of me.”
John did not look back.
Out on the street again, he looked around for Hawkwing. The skewbald gelding had made his way over to a nearby water trough, and Miss Jane Harris had been powerless to stop him.
Marching over to the horse, John climbed into the saddle and held out his hand to the troublesome visitor from Boston.
Her nervous glance darted from his hand, to his face, to the horse and back again until it threatened to make John dizzy.
“Grab hold and I’ll pull you up,” he snapped.
She continued to hesitate. “I thought you were going to hire a wagon for us.”
So did I. “Briggs claims he doesn’t have anything to suit.” John could hear the disdain in his own voice.
Her lower lip, still swollen from the train accident, commenced to quiver. John wanted to throw his head back and howl, like a he-wolf at the full moon.
He could read the thoughts running through her head as clear as the sign above the No Bull Meat Market across the street. She saw him as some heathen savage, just waiting for a ripe moment to ravish and slaughter her while they rode across open country with daylight waning.
“It’s up to you.” John straightened in his saddle. “It’d be just as easy for me if you stay in town tonight and I send somebody from the ranch to fetch you in the morning.”
When she darted an anxious glance farther up the street to the Carlton Hotel, John almost laughed aloud. The woman wasn’t only afraid of him, she was scared of everyone and everything about Whitehorn. Talk about your fish out of water!
“I—I don’t have any money to pay for a room.”
John softened his tone as he leaned down and offered her his hand again. In spite of some harsh lessons from life, he believed in second chances.
“Well, that makes two of us, ma’am. Come on, now. I’m pretty near as harmless as Hawkwing, and only a bit more stubborn. We’ll make better time getting to the ranch if we ride across the range, anyway. You do want to get to the Kincaids, don’t you?”
That did it. Her baby mouth set in an attempt at a determined line, which John found strangely comical. And even more strangely appealing. No question, she was prepared to wade through hell itself to reach his brother-in-law’s ranch.
She extended her absurdly tiny hand up to meet his.
Drawing her up off the ground, John set her on top of Hawkwing’s generous hindquarters. “Hang on.”
For the first minute or two, she settled for clutching a handful of his coat. But as the horse’s pace picked up, she clenched her arms around his waist. John Whitefeather had never felt so uncomfortable on the back of a horse as he did on that endless ride out to the ranch with Miss Jane Harris perched behind him, clinging like grim death.
Everything about the woman irritated him. Her small size. Her New England fussiness. Her barely controlled panic, so intense it was almost contagious.
For the last twenty of his thirty years, John had struggled to tread the thin, brittle line between two races vastly at odds and often at war. Among his late father’s people, he had found a measure of acceptance, though always clouded by the necessity to prove himself and a personal sense of guilt for the crimes of the whites. Among his late mother’s race, he doubted he would ever find tolerance, let alone favor.
Over and over, he had told himself he didn’t care. Until he’d almost come to believe it. His meeting with Miss Harris had ripped away those comforting illusions, and he wanted to hate her for it.
“Is the ranch much farther?” she squeaked when they had been riding for a quarter of an hour.
So, she’d finally worked up the nerve to make conversation. John heard her suck a breath in through clenched teeth.
“Why? Did you hurt your…” he searched for a polite word, but found he could only think in terms of horses “… your rump in that train crash?”
Her whole body stiffened behind him. “How dare you ask a lady such an improper question!”
So, the quivering little rabbit had teeth, after all. For no sane reason he could think of, John found himself grinning. Luckily, she couldn’t see his face.
He shrugged. “We can stop and stretch your legs if you like, but I’d just as soon not be caught out in open country when the sun disappears behind those mountains. Easy to get lost unless there’s a good moon. Lot of animals come out to hunt at night—wolves, wildcats.”
He sensed her looking around, taking in the waving green grassland in one direction and the wooded foothills of the Crazy Mountains in the other.
A shiver ran through her and she tightened her arms around his middle. “By all means, let’s keep riding.”
John could tell he’d spooked her. A bucketful of ice-cold shame doused the spark of gleeful satisfaction within him. Some men found fun in baiting wild creatures, but he had never been one of them. On the contrary, he had a gift for gentling such animals—deer, pronghorns and especially wild mustangs.
For all her show of Boston prudery, Jane Harris reminded him of a wounded doe. Beneath a tiny scrap of a hat that would be useless against the beating sun, she had hair of a sorrel shade, like a yearling just losing its protective spots. Her features were as delicate as a fawn’s, too, and she had the same enormous, liquid brown eyes. Those eyes held a restless wariness like a deer’s, as if ever alert for predators, yet powerless against them. He had never met a woman so vulnerable and so completely unfit for Big Sky Country.
She provoked his pity as well as his resentment, and they were like twin burrs beneath his saddle. Truth be told, pity was the more nettlesome of the two.
Little Miss Harris had landed in Whitehorn alone, injured and without a single belonging she didn’t wear or carry on her. What would she do, John wondered, when she found out Ruth and Caleb didn’t want her to work for them?
Chapter Two
Something was wrong. Jane sensed it from the moment John Whitefeather ushered her into the big, two-story house with a wide porch that wrapped around it like a protective embrace. Standing in the generously proportioned kitchen, dominated by a big cast-iron stove, she wondered why her new employers didn’t appear happy to see her.
“Ruth, Caleb, this is Miss Jane Harris, from Boston.” John Whitefeather hung his long coat and leather hat on a peg by the kitchen door. “She just got into Whitehorn this afternoon. She’s come about the job looking after Barton and Zeke.”
A slender woman with warm bronzed skin dropped her washing cloth into the dish tub in the far corner of the kitchen. Wiping her hands on her apron, she approached Jane. Her dark hair was plaited in a thick braid that coiled far down her back. She wore a long skirt that looked to be made of very fine leather, and a bright red shirtwaist embroidered with tiny colored beads in an intricate design.
Beside the area where his wife had been working, Caleb Kincaid sat in a big wooden armchair upholstered with leather. A rugged-faced man with shaggy blond hair, he slowly lit a pipe without speaking a word.
Mrs. Kincaid shot her husband an odd, searching look, then she caught sight of Jane’s face. “What happened to you, kâse’ee’he? Did you fall off the horse on your ride out here? No, these bruises have begun to heal.”
Jane took a deep breath, ready to launch into the contrived explanation for her injuries. At the last moment, she faltered. What if she got confused and told Mrs. Kincaid a slightly different story than she’d told the foreman? Might he trip her up in the lie?
To her surprise, John Whitefeather came to her rescue. “Some cars on her train got derailed back in Chicago. She lost all her bags in the accident, too.”
Ruth Kincaid shook her head and made a crooning noise of sympathy. “You must be hungry and tired, dear. Sit down and eat, then we’ll talk. Before you go to bed, I’ll put a poultice on your cheek. It might draw that bruise. And you need some salve for the scrape on your chin.”
Gratefully Jane sank down onto one of the plain, solid chairs ranged around the big kitchen table, and took off her hat and gloves. Eking out her last few crackers on the train, she thought she’d grown accustomed to the vague biliousness of constant hunger. It had gnawed at her stomach like a toothless old dog worrying a bone. Now, as she inhaled a savory blend of meat and onions, her appetite suddenly grew the fangs of a wolf.
Mrs. Kincaid set a plate of stew in front of Jane and another in front of John Whitefeather, who had taken a seat opposite her. Years of strictly minding her manners, and the consciousness of her new employers’ eyes upon her, kept Jane from falling on her supper like a starving beast.
Nothing could stifle her groan of pleasure upon sinking her teeth into a tender morsel of richly flavored meat.
Mrs. Kincaid smiled as she set a plate of biscuits and a crock of butter on the table between Jane and the foreman. “Is this the first time you’ve tasted venison, Miss Harris?”
Jane abruptly stopped chewing. She swallowed hard to work that mouthful down. “Deer meat?”
She reached for a biscuit at the same moment as John Whitefeather. His large, brown knuckles swiped across hers, making them look smaller, softer and paler. She suddenly had a vivid flash of memory—Emery’s sallow, bony fist flying toward her eye. With a gasp and a start, she jerked her hand back, as though she’d touched a red-hot stove.
“Don’t worry, Miss Harris.” The foreman glanced at Mrs. Kincaid, his dark brows raised. “There’s plenty of biscuits here for both of us.”
Jane caught the rancher’s wife returning John Whitefeather’s dubious look. A sense of impending trouble ambushed her again.
Caleb Kincaid smoked in watchful silence as Jane and John Whitefeather finished their meal. Only when his wife had removed the plates from the table did he speak.
“I’m afraid we have a problem, Miss Harris.” The rancher stared hard at the kitchen floor, as if suddenly finding its wood grain of absorbing interest.
Here it came. Jane’s insides constricted into a tiny little lump, heavy as lead.
“Problem?” She almost gagged on the word.
Three thousand miles from home, with nothing. There couldn’t be a problem with her only means to earn a living. There just couldn’t.
The rancher was a big man. Not quite as big as his foreman, but still tall and powerfully made. Having broached the subject, he now cast a helpless glance at his wife, who looked every bit as ill at ease.
“Did you not read the letter we sent you, kâse’ee’he?” Ruth Kincaid set the dishes in the washtub, then stood beside her husband’s chair.
“Of course I read it,” blurted Jane, then she hesitated. What if the Kincaids asked her to quote particulars? “I mean…not with my own eyes. It…arrived on a rainy day…and the ink ran.”
Oh dear, why could she not invent a more plausible explanation for coming all the way to Montana without actually having seen the Kincaids’ offer of employment? After all, she’d had years of practice lying about the injuries Emery had done her.
She toyed with the notion of telling them the humiliating truth, but firmly rejected it. Better to let the Kincaids turn her out on the empty grasslands, with wolves howling in the distance, than have to admit her fiancé had burned their letter before her eyes, then beaten her insensible for trying to escape him.
“I just assumed you must be writing to offer me the job.” Though she struggled against it, her voice rose, shrill and plaintive. “No one writes all the way from Montana to Boston to say they don’t want you.”
Neither Caleb Kincaid nor his wife would meet her eyes, so she addressed her hopeless question across the table, to the only person in the room who did not flinch from her imploring gaze.
“Do they?”
For the first time since she’d come face-to-face with him that afternoon, John Whitefeather’s sternly handsome features softened in a look of sympathy. He cleared his throat.
“We can’t do anything about this tonight.” He addressed his words to the Kincaids. “Miss Harris is here and she can’t go back to Whitehorn until morning. Maybe after a good night’s sleep we’ll all see our way clearer.”
Jane wasn’t certain what to make of a hired man advising his employers with such authority. She couldn’t picture herself bidding Mrs. Endicott to do anything.
After spending so many nights dozing fitfully on the upright seat of a jolting railway carriage, she yearned to lie flat on her back to sleep. As John Whitefeather had said, the situation couldn’t help but look a little brighter in the morning. At the moment, her problem seemed insurmountable.
Unfortunately, nothing was going to make it disappear overnight.
“Why…?” Her lower lip began to quiver. She drew a breath to steady herself, only to exhale a humiliating sob. “Why don’t you want me? You need someone to look after your baby, and I’ve looked after Mrs. Endicott since I was twelve years old. She’s not a baby, I know, but sometimes when she won’t take her pills like the doctor orders, and when she rings the bell for me half a dozen times in the night, she’s every bit as much trouble. And she doesn’t smell sweet like a baby or hold out her arms and smile like babies do to let you know they…”
The forlorn little words love you were lost as Jane shielded her face with her hands and fought to compose herself.
Suddenly she felt a pair of strong arms warm around her shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat and she jerked back from the comforting embrace. She relaxed slightly when she found it was Mrs. Kincaid, not John Whitefeather, holding her.
Ruth Kincaid crooned some words Jane could not understand before easing into English. “It was not you we turned down, Jane Harris. I asked Caleb to make that plain in his letter. There must have been a mix-up. We didn’t even run our notice in any newspapers so far East.”
Jane remembered. She’d read the Kincaids’ advertisement in one of the newspapers Mrs. Endicott’s cousin had sent her from Saint Louis. Wanting to get as far away from Emery as possible, Jane had scoured the western papers for employment opportunities. Of several inquiries she’d sent, only the Kincaids in distant Montana had answered.
To say they didn’t want her.
Ruth Kincaid patted Jane’s shoulder, then took a seat beside her at the table. “I’m a healer, and when my people call on me in an emergency, I have to go. Someone needs to be here to care for the baby and for Caleb’s boy, Zeke, while I am away. Women who come to Montana from back East often don’t stay. Our land is too big and too hard for them. When the letters came applying for the job, we chose a widow from Bismarck. She knows this country. She’ll stay for as long as we need her.”
“I w-w-would have stayed.” Jane fought the urge to give way to tears harder than she’d ever fought anything. Childish blubbering would only convince the Kincaids they’d been right to hire someone else.
Smoothing the tumbled strands of hair back from Jane’s face, Ruth nodded gravely. “I think you would have. I’m sorry you came so far and through so many troubles for nothing.”
“It’s my fault. I’m sorry.” By rote, the words fell from Jane’s lips. This time, she meant them. “I should have taken the time to confirm what was written in your letter and not come dashing out to Montana based on a hopeful assumption.”
After her ride from Whitehorn on the back of John Whitefeather’s spotted horse, she understood what Mrs. Kincaid meant about women from the East Coast not staying long in Montana. Everything about the place was on such a vast scale. It dwarfed all her efforts and her dreams. Such country demanded strength from its daughters, and Jane sensed it would not take kindly to a foundling like her.
The dispiriting fact remained: she had nowhere to go and no means to get there if she did.
Jane took a deep breath, trying to make herself look fearless, capable and steady. She doubted either the Kincaids or John Whitefeather would be fooled. “I’ll be obliged to you for letting me stay the night. I don’t suppose you know anyone else hereabouts who needs help looking after their children?”
“Well now, let me think on it.” Caleb Kincaid scratched his chin in a pensive fashion.
“Think tonight and we’ll talk more in the morning.” The rancher’s wife beckoned to Jane. “Come along, dear. Let’s find you a bed and a nightgown, then I’ll bring my medicines.”
Despite her worries, or perhaps because of them, Jane longed to stretch out on any excuse for a bed and to flee from her troubles into the land of dreams.
As she rose from the table to follow her hostess out of the kitchen, John Whitefeather spoke. “I have a thought, if you want to hear it.”
Ruth Kincaid chuckled. “Was there ever a time we didn’t pay you mind, hestatanemo?” To Jane, she added, “It was my brother who advised me to leave our people and make a life with Caleb Kincaid.”
Brother? Jane tried to mask her surprise as she berated herself for not guessing sooner. Her stomach churned as she recalled all the subtle ways she must have offended John Whitefeather since the first moment she’d approached him in the saloon. What wise counsel was he going to give his sister and brother-in-law concerning their unwanted houseguest?
Jane braced herself.
“When’s this other lady supposed to come?” John asked, drumming his fingers on the table.
Caleb Kincaid shrugged. “Mrs. Muldoon didn’t rightly give a date. Said she had to settle her affairs in Bismarck first. Another few weeks, a month, who knows?”
Nodding, as if gravely pleased with the answer, John Whitefeather cast a look at his sister. “Didn’t you get called out just the other night, when Ghost Moon had trouble birthing her twins?”
“You know I did, since you rode with me.”
“Well, then, since Mrs. Muldoon won’t be coming for a spell and Miss Harris is already here and could use a job, why don’t you let her look after the boys? That way she could at least earn the price of a train ticket back to Boston.”
Before Jane could help herself, the words burst out. “I’m not going back to Boston—not ever!” Not as long as Emery Endicott was there, at least.
They all ignored her outburst. Ruth and Caleb Kincaid exchanged a long gaze, as though sharing each other’s thoughts without words.
Jane held still, scarcely breathing as she silently willed them to give her a chance. Her eyes met John Whitefeather’s, and she offered him a timid half smile for intervening on her behalf. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken up for her.
At last Ruth Kincaid nodded. “My brother’s plan is a good one for all of us. Would you be willing to stay, Miss Harris, until Mrs. Muldoon can come?”
“Yes.” Jane blurted out her acceptance before the Kincaids had time to think better of the idea. “Thank you.”
The matter settled, Mrs. Kincaid hustled her upstairs to a rustic but snug little room under the eaves. A narrow bed stood in one corner, while a small bureau and a washstand of matching, pale-hued wood bracketed the window. Green curtains, a round braided rug and a patchwork quilt added touches of color and warmth.
Her new employer fetched Jane a pitcher of hot water, a nightgown and an extra quilt.
“The nights can still get cold this time of year, and you don’t have much meat on your bones, dear. We must try to fatten you up while you’re with us.”
When Mrs. Kincaid returned later with her medicines, Jane was standing at the window, staring out at a small, sturdy cabin not far from the main house.
“I can’t think why my brother insists on sleeping out in the foreman’s cabin when he takes all his meals with us.” As Ruth Kincaid spoke she set several clay pots of salve on top of the bureau.
Jane remembered what the bartender in town had said about John Whitefeather always keeping to himself. That would suit her just fine. The fewer men she had to deal with in her new position, the better.
Casting dubious looks at Ruth’s medicines, Jane wrinkled her nose at some of the smells. Patiently Ruth Kincaid told her the ingredients of each compound and what good it would do. Then she applied generous daubs on Jane’s injuries with a whisper-light touch.
“Do you hurt anywhere else that needs tending, dear?”
Jane’s stomach churned at Ruth Kincaid’s matter-of-fact question.
“No.” Her hand flew to the modestly buttoned throat of her borrowed nightgown before she could stop it. “I guess my clothes must have protected the rest of me when I got thrown around the train carriage.”
In truth, she wished Mrs. Kincaid could employ her healing touch on the ribs a doctor at the Boston infirmary had pronounced cracked. That injury and the ugly purple bruising on her bosom could easily be explained by the train-crash story. For Mrs. Kincaid to examine her ribs, though, Jane would have to expose her shoulders and upper arms. Those wounds, where Emery had dug in his nails and gouged her flesh, would betray her shameful secret.
When she’d changed for bed, Jane had noticed the injured skin was still red and swollen. She feared the wounds would leave telltale scars.
Mrs. Kincaid gathered up her medicines. “If that’s all I can do for you now, I’ll say good-night. Sleep well—it’s the best healer. In the morning we’ll find clothes for you.”
She turned down the wick on Jane’s lamp, easing the tiny gable room into a warm cocoon of darkness.
With a sigh of contentment Jane gave herself up to the modest luxury of a clean, warm bed. She could scarcely remember a time when she’d been cared for with the tenderness Mrs. Kincaid had shown her tonight. The sturdy construction of the ranch house made her feel safer than she had felt in a long time. Already she shrank from the prospect of leaving it.
She would repay the Kincaids for their kindness, Jane vowed as exhaustion overcame her. She would work hard to care for the children and do everything possible to help Mrs. Kincaid around the house.
If she really, really tried, perhaps she could even make herself indispensable.
As she lapsed into dreams, Jane found herself reliving her ride from town in the untalkative company of John Whitefeather. Even when she’d doubted whether she could trust him, her arms had instinctively latched on to his warm, solid frame. She had breathed his scent, a faint masculine compound of sweet dry hay mingled with the musk of horses and leather. The contrast to Emery’s overpowering pomade comforted her somehow.
Why had John Whitefeather not mentioned he was related to the Kincaids? And what had prompted him to intercede on her behalf? Jane had lived too long and been hurt too often not to question his motives. She knew from bitter experience the danger of fraternizing with a member of her employer’s family.
Not that such a thing was apt to happen in her case. For all she knew, John Whitefeather might be happily married, though his sister’s comment about the foreman’s cabin made Jane doubt it. Even if he was a bachelor, such a handsome man must have plenty of ladies waiting at his beck and call. What interest would he have in some mousey, penniless hired girl from the East? None at all, Jane insisted to herself as her cracked ribs began to ache.
Or was it, perhaps, her heart?
“I swear I could see her heart thumping.” John shook his head, recalling the spectacle of Miss Jane Harris venturing into the Double Deuce Saloon. “Like a rabbit come calling in a coyotes’ den.”
Caleb Kincaid threw back his tawny head and let out a whoop of laughter. “I’ll bet a few of those hungry coyotes were licking their chops, all right! She could be a fetching little filly if she didn’t look like she just lost a barroom brawl.”
Somehow the thought of those cowboys at the Double Deuce casting hungry eyes over Miss Harris sobered John’s mood of levity. He didn’t reckon he had any call to make fun of the lady. She’d shown some backbone traipsing into a tough spot like the Double Deuce to find him. The fact that she’d done what she had to in spite of her obvious fear kindled a grudging glimmer of respect in him.
As far as John Whitefeather was concerned, that was the true mark of courage.
“What do you reckon brought her all the way out here, from Boston?” he asked, as much to himself as to Caleb. The woman was a bundle of mysteries and contradictions, all of which intrigued John too much for his liking.
Caleb Kincaid took a long draw on his pipe, as if the tobacco smoke fueled his thoughts. “Could be most anything. Maybe she got itchy feet and figured Montana would be a big adventure. Or she might have read about the gold fields and figured this was prime hunting ground for a rich husband.”
John shook his head slowly. Neither of these guesses tallied with what he’d so far experienced of Miss Jane Harris. Not that he had much practice with women, but he knew enough of men and horses to recognize a look of desperation when he saw it.
“I got the feeling she wouldn’t be in Montana if she had a choice.”
Caleb mulled that over for a long, silent moment. “Think she might be on the run from the law? Maybe I ought to send a wire to the police in Boston. Don’t want some criminal taking care of my boys, no matter how good-looking she is.”
For no good reason that John could figure, his brother-in-law’s words provoked him. He responded in a sharper tone than he intended. “How come you’re so set on thinking the worst of this poor gal, Caleb? I can’t picture her getting up the gumption to do anything against the law.”
Caleb replied with a smug, mocking smile that John wanted to wipe off his face—by force if necessary. “How come you’re so set on defending her? That’s a far more entertaining question, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask.” John rose abruptly from the table. “Can’t sit around jawing with you all night. Got to work some more on that little maverick filly tomorrow. Maybe she got to missing me while I was gone today, and she’ll be ready to make friends.”
As he fetched his hat and coat from the hook by the door, his brother-in-law rose and stretched. “Always plenty to do, is right. A man needs to grab his sleep when he’s got a soft, warm bed.”
He ambled over to the stove, lifted the lid off the firebox and knocked the ashes from his pipe into it.
“Be careful around this little maverick filly, John.” Caleb nodded upward to signal that he meant Jane Harris. “I’ve got a bad feeling about her. Reminds me of Zeke’s mama, God rest her soul. She just wasn’t fit for this kind of life, and she made the boy and me miserable for a long spell before and after she died. I don’t know what would have become of us if Ruth hadn’t come back into my life again when she did.”
The rancher’s rugged features softened and his wary tone warmed as he spoke of his wife.
John knew how many years his sister had quietly suffered, her heart held captive by a married man who couldn’t claim her. One of his greatest joys in life was to see her so happy and fulfilled in her union with Caleb Kincaid. Part of him envied what Ruth and Caleb had together, while another part shied from going after it himself. Every moment of happiness they enjoyed now had cost them a matching moment of pain.
Besides, a wife was a responsibility, and he already had more than enough responsibility for the folks at Sweetgrass. One day, perhaps, if he found a woman capable of easing his burdens, rather than adding to them, he might be willing to gamble his heart and his hard-won peace of spirit.
“Save your warning, Caleb.” John jammed on his hat and pulled open the kitchen door. “Once I delivered Jane Harris to the ranch, my obligation and my interest both ended. Even if I was fool enough to hanker after her, you never saw the way she looked at me in town today. I reckon the lady would sooner be courted by a grizzly.”
Caleb’s husky laughter followed him out into the night.
Though the clean, still air was chilly for late May, John didn’t bother to put on his coat for his short saunter from the Kincaids’ kitchen door to the foreman’s cabin, where he spent his nights.
In the distance, lights flickered from the windows of the cowboys’ bunkhouse. The sounds of talk, laughter and the plaintive croon of a harmonica spilled out into the night. John knew if he set foot inside, the music and gossip would stop and the cowboys would hit their bunks, where they belonged. Tonight he didn’t have the heart to interrupt their fun.
He hesitated at the door of his cabin, a refuge of solitude between the homey bustle of Ruth and Caleb’s place and the bachelor commotion of the bunkhouse.
Overhead, the wide, black Montana sky glittered with a mother lode of tiny silver nuggets—calm and beautiful, but also distant and cold. For the first time since coming to the Kincaid ranch, over a year ago, John Whitefeather went to bed in a foreman’s cabin that felt lonesome and empty.
Chapter Three
“Indispensable. In-dispensable.” Over and over, Jane muttered the word to herself as she confronted her first day of provisional employment.
To her surprise, she’d slept deeply and peacefully, untroubled by nightmares of Emery hunting her down. Between Mrs. Kincaid’s pungent salves and the healing night’s rest, Jane did not wince too painfully at the sight of her face in the oval looking glass above the bureau.
A soft knock on the door made her jump. Her newfound sense of security must not run very deep, after all.
“W-who is it?”
“It’s Ruth, Miss Harris. I heard you stirring and thought I should bring you some clean clothes.”
Jane pulled open the door. “That’s very kind of you.”
Expecting only Ruth, she started at the sight of a boy, nine or ten years old. If he was home from school, this must be Saturday. Jane realized she’d lost track of the days during her exhausting journey west from Boston.
If she noticed Jane’s jumpiness, the rancher’s wife gave no sign. “Jane Harris, this is Zeke, Caleb’s son. He helped me bring down this trunk of clothes from the attic. They belonged to his mother and they’re too small for me. They might fit you until we can make some new ones.”
“Thank you.” Jane looked from the trunk to Zeke Kincaid. “If it’ll upset you to see me wearing clothes that belonged to your mother, I can get by with the blouse and skirt I wore from Boston.”
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. “I don’t mind, ma’am, honest. My ma’s been gone quite a spell now and Ruth told me all your bags got burned up in a train wreck.” He glanced up at her, then looked away again, blushing. “That must’ve been exciting.”
“I suppose so.” Jane hoped Zeke wouldn’t pester her for details that might unravel her tangled falsehood. “Not exciting in a good way, I’m afraid.”
Was there a good kind of excitement?
Before the boy could inquire further, a loud and sustained wail rang out downstairs.
Ruth Kincaid turned to her stepson. “Go see what your brother’s done to himself this time, Zeke. I’ll be right down.”
The boy grimaced. “Aw, do I have to?”
“Please, Zeke.”
Muttering to himself about the bother of baby brothers, the boy headed downstairs.
Ruth pushed the trunk over Jane’s threshold. “You’re kind to think of Zeke’s feelings. Don’t worry, though, he won’t have many memories of his mother wearing these things. Use whatever will fit.”
“What about Mr. Kincaid?” The impossibly tactless question slipped out before Jane could help herself.
To her surprise and relief, Caleb Kincaid’s second wife shook her head. “I asked him, and he doesn’t mind. Come down to breakfast when you’re dressed. You can meet Barton and we’ll talk about this job you have with us.”
When her new employer had gone, Jane found it took longer than she planned to rummage through the trunk for something to wear. The clothes fit her well enough, but few looked suitable for a Montana rancher’s wife, let alone a hired girl.
To Jane, who had never owned pretty clothes because Mrs. Endicott disdained such frivolity, the trunk was a treasure trove. She couldn’t resist trying on one or two of the fanciest dresses before settling on a comparatively simple style in apple green. If she borrowed an apron of Ruth’s to cover the front, it might not be too fancy for doing chores.
Employing a dainty hairbrush she found in the trunk, Jane dressed her plain brown hair in a style that veiled as much as possible of her healing face. After making her bed, she followed the tantalizing smell of coffee down to the kitchen.
There she found Ruth adding chopped vegetables to a big cast-iron pot on the back of the stove. Young Zeke was shoving oatmeal into the mouth of a baby, whose plump cheeks were caked with drying porridge.
Jane tried to guess how old he might be. Not a young infant, for he held himself erect in the chair. A year old, perhaps? Two? Should a woman be caring for young children if she couldn’t place the age of a baby better than that?
Stifling that nauseating qualm of doubt, Jane stooped in front of the high chair. She offered her forefinger for the baby to grasp in his chubby fist. “This must be Master Barton. He looks like a hearty eater.”
“Watch out if you’re trying to feed him something he doesn’t like.” Zeke pulled a face. “Pa says Barton can spit farther than a rattlesnake.”
Jane could scarcely imagine this chuckling cherub being any trouble. As much as Zeke looked like his father, little Barton was the image of his mother, with golden-brown skin, fine black hair and dark laughing eyes. When he cracked a wide gummy smile and crowed his delight at seeing her, Jane surrendered her heart to him.
After what Emery had done to her, the idea of marriage now frightened Jane too much to contemplate. Which meant she would never have babies of her own.
To distract herself from that wrenching regret, she asked Zeke, “What sorts of food does your little brother dislike?”
“Mashed peas.” The boy rolled his eyes.
“Oh dear.” Jane laughed, and Barton’s big brother laughed with her.
“I’ll be glad when he’s older.” Zeke passed Barton’s bowl and spoon to Jane. “Then I can take him riding with me and fishing down at the creek. Right now, he’s not much use.”
Jane nodded. She couldn’t find it in her heart to tell Zeke that by the time his baby brother was able to ride and fish, he probably wouldn’t want the little fellow tagging along. She could hardly remember her older brother, who had sickened and died of the typhoid along with their mother. She did recall how Ches had discouraged her from following him and his friends.
Ruth Kincaid gave one last stir to the contents of the pot, then she opened the warming tray above the stove and lifted down a bowl and a plate. “Come eat breakfast, Miss Harris. I kept it hot for you.”
Planting a kiss on the baby’s fat fist, Jane pried her finger from his sturdy grasp. She took her place at the table and tucked into her breakfast gratefully. When Ruth brought her a cup of strong black coffee, she savored each sip.
“Today I’ll show you around the house.” Mrs. Kincaid brought her own steaming cup of coffee to the table and took a seat opposite Jane. “I’ll explain what chores I want you to do while you’re with us. After that we can—”
Before the rancher’s wife could finish, a stampede of footsteps thundered out on the porch. Jane cringed at the sound, then exhaled a breath of relief when Caleb Kincaid burst through the kitchen door.
“Can you come, Ruth?” he called to his wife. “Bring your medicines. Lizzie’s brother’s been thrown by his horse out on the range. Broke some bones and may have cracked his skull. I don’t want to move the young fellow until you look him over first.”
With a nod to her husband, Ruth rose from her chair and strode out of the kitchen. She returned a moment later wearing her bonnet and shawl, and carrying a brown leather satchel.
She glanced at Jane. “Good fortune brought you to us last night, Miss Harris. Take care of the boys while I am gone.”
Before Jane could ask how long that might be, the Kincaids had hurried out of the ranch house. Caleb shot her a glance as they were leaving—wary and vaguely hostile. Perhaps he didn’t like her wearing his late wife’s clothes, after all.
Young Barton stared at the door for a moment, as if expecting his parents to come rushing back in again. When a little time passed and they did not materialize, he screwed up his face and began to cry loudly.
Zeke scowled at his little brother. “He don’t like it when Ruth goes off like that. If I was you, I’d stuff rags in my ears, miss.”
“He’ll settle down.” Jane hollered to make herself heard over Barton’s shrill lament. Hunting up a damp cloth, she wiped the baby’s face, which made him cry harder still. Then she scooped him up out of his high chair and bounced him gently, trying to comfort him.
The child’s sobs gradually subsided into wet hiccups. A warm surge of success buoyed Jane—indispensable. “There now, that wasn’t so bad.”
Time to wipe off the tray of his high chair and wash the breakfast dishes. Giving his warm little body a final squeeze, Jane set Barton down on the floor so she could tend to the other chores.
“Waaaa!” The crying returned in full force and increased volume.
Jane picked the baby up again. My, he was a heavy little armful! The gentle ache of her ribs sharpened. It took her longer to quiet him this time, but at last his tears subsided and he poked a plump thumb into his mouth. Shifting him to her hip, Jane managed to carry her breakfast dishes and his porridge bowl to the corner washtub. She dampened a rag and swiped it over the tray of his chair. It wasn’t as thorough a job as she would like to have done, but the best she could manage one-handed while balancing a heavy baby on her hip.
Zeke ambled to the kitchen door, grabbing his hat and coat from their pegs.
“Where are you going?” Jane asked.
The boy shrugged. “Poke around the corrals. Maybe saddle up Windsinger and go for a ride.”
Jane thought of the cowboy thrown from his horse. The one Mrs. Kincaid might be tending at this very minute. And what animals might be out in the ranch’s corrals? Bulls with sharp horns and heavy hooves, perhaps. Wild mustangs whose powerful bucking legs could shatter a man’s skull with one kick.
Ruth and Caleb Kincaid had left her in charge of their boys. Ruth trustingly. Caleb warily. More than anything, Jane wanted to justify Ruth’s faith in her and to win Caleb’s trust. How else could she make herself indispensable around the Kincaid ranch? If Zeke came to harm while in her care, she might find herself on the next train back to Boston, or perhaps hired to ply some unspeakable trade at the Double Deuce Saloon.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. I’m responsible for your safety. I’ll have to ask you to stay in the house with me until your folks get back.”
“Aw!” The boy thrust his hat back on its peg, but kept his buckskin jacket on. “I ain’t a baby like Barton. I’ve been going where I please around this ranch as long as I can recollect. Two years ago I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”
If Zeke expected such a boast would impress Jane into setting him at liberty, he miscalculated.
“I’m sorry, Zeke.” He seemed like a good boy. If she denied him and he came to resent her presence, what chance was there that his father and stepmother would keep her around? “I could use your help while Ruth is gone. Barton doesn’t know who I am, and I haven’t got any idea where to find things. I’d be much obliged if you’d stay close by to advise me.”
He heaved a great sigh that reminded Jane of Mrs. Endicott when she finally submitted to the tiresome necessity of taking her pills. “I suppose I can hang around till Pa gets back. Best advice I can give you—if Barton starts to cry again, try sitting with him in the rocking chair.”
“Thank you, Zeke. I’ll remember that.”
Just to impress upon her that he was obeying under protest, the boy stalked off to another part of the house. Later Jane heard loud banging noises from upstairs, but she didn’t have the courage to go investigate what he might be up to.
Not that she had the opportunity, for Barton kept her well occupied. As long as she sat in the rocking chair, talking or singing to him, he was perfectly contented. And he would tolerate being held in Jane’s arms while she walked through the house, wistfully taking note of all the chores she could be doing to impress the Kincaids with her industry.
If she set him down, though, the baby would suck in more air than his small body seemed capable of holding. Then he would release it at high volume with a distressing infusion of tears. The sound of his crying made Jane’s insides contract and the muscles between her shoulders bunch up tight.
What was that smell? Something burning?
Ignoring Barton’s shrieks, Jane popped him into his high chair and checked the stove. The savory concoction of beef and beans had begun to scorch on the bottom of the pot. Jane stirred it several times.
Was it her imagination, or did she smell the tang of sourdough working?
A quick glance in the warming tray revealed a number of loaf pans covered with damp dish towels. Had they risen sufficiently? Was the oven hot enough to bake them? Back in Boston, Mrs. Endicott’s cook had prepared all the meals. Jane wished she’d shown more curiosity about culinary matters.
She could always leave the dough and later claim not to have known it was there. But by then it might have overflowed the pans and made a sticky mess all over the bottom of the warming tray. She owed Ruth better service than that.
Desperately hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane lifted the pans down and set them in the oven. Then she dug in the wood box for a couple of good-size sticks to stoke the fire.
“Hush, Barton, hush. I’m coming.” She hoisted the squalling baby back out of his chair and bounced him on her hip until she feared her cracked ribs would break for sure. Did something else ail the little fellow besides missing his mother? Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired?
The Kincaids had been right not to hire her in the first place. What had made her think she could look after a baby when she had almost no experience, only a pack of romantic daydreams about motherhood?
Jane collapsed into the rocking chair and snuffled back tears of sympathy for young Barton. And despair for herself.
The new filly shied away from John Whitefeather’s approach. The last shreds of patience slipped from his grasp like a greased rope. He’d tried a number of his most reliable techniques on the tetchy beast and she still wouldn’t let him near—not even to feed from a bucket of oats he held.
Finally he let her out into the paddock with Hawkwing and Zeke’s pony, Windsinger. Maybe they would let the filly know he was a man a horse could trust.
When his stomach gave a loud growl, John realized the time had gotten away from him. That often happened when he threw himself into gentling a particularly reluctant horse. Still, he could always count on his sister to drag him into the ranch house for meals.
But Ruth had gone with Caleb to tend young Cicero Price, and there was no sign of them back yet. Just then, John remembered Caleb’s parting words to him.
“Keep an eye on that Harris gal, will you? Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about that gal I don’t trust.”
“Better late than never,” John muttered to himself as he headed for the ranch house. How much mischief could she have gotten into since breakfast? Even if she was the mischievous type—which John doubted. “I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat, anyway.”
The minute he walked through the kitchen door, the smell of burned food overpowered John’s nose, while the piercing howls of his infant nephew all but deafened him. The room looked like an orange Kansas twister had just blown through it.
A strange, frantic sensation tightened the flesh of John’s throat as his eyes swept the kitchen, looking for Jane Harris. Had she run off or locked herself in her room, leaving the boys to fend for themselves?
In front of the oven, a disheveled figure straightened up and set a loaf pan on the counter. The aroma of fresh bread almost battled the stench of burned beans. Three more times Jane Harris bent and straightened, like some kind of wading bird bobbing for food. Then she closed the oven door and rescued Barton from his chair.
As she stood there clutching the bawling baby, John thought he’d never seen such a pathetic looking creature in his life. The injuries to her face still had some healing to do, and her warm brown hair straggled from a once-neat roll at the nape of her neck. Her dainty green dress, better suited to a garden party than a Montana ranch, was spattered with gobs of bright orange, as was her face. She shrank from his gaze as though she expected John to draw a six-shooter and gun her down.
As Barton’s cries quieted, she spoke. “I don’t think the bread is ruined.”
She made it sound like a single hard-won victory in a day of disastrous defeats. For reasons he could not explain or justify to himself, John Whitefeather began to chuckle and then to laugh.
“This isn’t funny!” The terrified look left her eyes, replaced by a rather becoming flicker of fury. “I’ve tried my best, but everything’s just gone from bad to worse, and I can’t get a blessed thing done when I have to hold the baby every blessed minute.”
When a frightened filly had her back to the wall, often she would rear or buck, rather than cower. The Boston gal put John in mind of such a horse. And she wasn’t done yet.
“He spit out every spoonful of mashed carrots I tried to feed him. His brother’s off tearing the house apart nail by nail for all I know. Any minute, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are going to arrive home and put me on the next train back to Boston. If they don’t decide it’s cheaper just to throw me to the wolves!”
For an instant John feared the woman was going to burst into hysterical tears. Instead, she glanced around the kitchen and down at her carrot-dappled dress, then began to laugh with an edge of frenzy.
Two swift strides brought John close to her. When he held out his arms for his nephew, she surrendered the child without any pretense of reluctance.
John lifted little Barton high in the air and spoke to him in Cheyenne. “What kind of warrior are you to pour tears like a rain cloud and howl like thunder? Why do you torment the woman so she cannot work?”
Two deep dimples blossomed on either side of Barton’s mouth as he crowed with laughter.
John lowered the child to his shoulder. “I’ll keep him quiet for you and I’ll go talk to Zeke while you clean up the kitchen.”
“Why?” Suspicion brooded in the woman’s eyes.
He’d expected some timid sign of gratitude, like the smile she’d offered last night when he’d convinced Ruth and Caleb to let her stay on at the ranch. Her question, posed with a guarded posture and wary tone, puzzled him.
“Why should you clean the kitchen? If you can’t see that for yourself, ma’am, I don’t think you’re going to be much help to my sister.”
“I know why the kitchen needs to be cleaned.” She stiffened and pushed a fallen lock of hair out of her eyes. “What I want to know is why you’re willing to help me. When I first arrived in town yesterday, you looked at me like I was a dead whale rotting on your shore. Later you spoke up for me with the Kincaids and now you propose to take charge of the children so I can set this mess to rights. What is it you want from me, Mr. Whitefeather?”
The maverick filly out in the corral had exhausted his patience. He didn’t have a scrap left for this Boston filly who provoked a dust devil of contrary feelings within him.
“What do I want?” he snapped. “How about a crumb of thanks? Or is that too much for a Montana half-breed to expect from a prissy New England lady?”
Her fair complexion paled even further, until Barton’s spewed carrots stood out like a faceful of bright freckles. In John’s arms, the baby began to fuss. Rubbing the child’s back and rocking him, John softened his reproach of Jane Harris so as not to upset Barton further.
“Last night, when you found out you didn’t have a job, you looked like somebody pretty near the end of her rope. When I walked through that door a few minutes ago, you appeared to have gone downhill in the meantime. Call me a gullible jackass, Miss Harris, but I’ve always had a soft spot for folks who are in trouble. If you can’t accept a little help with good grace, I reckon that’s your problem.”
She thought his words over for an instant, then whispered, “I suppose it is.”
Miss Harris looked too doggone appealing, and he wanted to stay mad. So John spun away from her and headed off to find Zeke.
Over his shoulder he called, “Get busy and clean up around here. I’m doing this for my sister, not for you. She’ll be tuckered out when she gets back from doctoring Cicero. I don’t want her coming home to a kitchen that looks and smells like this one does.”
Behind him he heard absolute silence, which pricked his curiosity so much he almost looked back. Instead he forced his feet down the hall and up the stairs to Zeke’s room.
He tapped on the door. “Zeke, it’s me and Barton. Can we come in?”
The door swung open. John almost flinched at the sight. He’d seen hog wallows cleaner than Zeke’s bedroom.
The boy must have been cracking walnuts open with a hammer, for shells were spread across the wood floor like a crunchy carpet. Either the bed hadn’t been made that morning, or Zeke had climbed back under the covers recently. Discarded clothes lay everywhere. A company of painted toy soldiers littered one corner of the room where they had fallen in some pretend battle. Others sprawled behind a fortress of building blocks whose walls had been breached by imaginary artillery.
Picking his way through the walnut shells, John cleared a spot on the rumpled bed, then sat down and began to bounce Barton on his knee.
Zeke glanced around his room, as if noticing the mess for the first time. He knelt down and began sweeping the walnut shells into a pile.
“Did she say you had to hang around indoors all day, too?” The boy’s lower lip thrust out in a stubborn pout.
Sometimes John wondered if his young friend didn’t have the worst qualities of both his parents—Caleb’s stubborn streak and Marie’s spitefulness.
“Nope.” John shook his head. “I came in to get some coffee and a bite to eat.” Jane Harris had driven any thought of food or drink from his mind. “You housebound for the day?”
“Uh-huh. She thinks I’m some kind of danged baby, like Barton. I told her I’ve been going where I want and doing what I please on this ranch since I been out of dresses. Told her how I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”
John swallowed a smile and nodded, remembering how the boy had appeared at their camp, wanting to become a Cheyenne warrior to avoid going to school. “Was that likely to convince her it’s safe to let you out of the house?”
“Reckon not.”
“I don’t think she was trying to be mean to you, or treat you like a baby, Zeke. Your folks went off in a big hurry this morning and left Miss Harris to look after you boys without any time to prepare. It’s not easy being put in charge when you aren’t ready. Lot of responsibility. Lot of things can go wrong and it’ll be your fault if they do.”
That’s how he’d felt when Bearspeaker and the other elders had made him their chief. Always, he worried if he was doing the right thing. Like now—working in the white man’s world to provide a place that belonged to them. Would he have done better to settle them on the reservation with other Cheyenne bands? If any of his people suffered because of his decision, John wondered how he would bear the burden on his conscience.
“If you say so.” Zeke gathered up his dirty clothes and set them on the end of the bed. “She’s kind of pretty, ain’t she?”
“You reckon?” John shrugged and wrinkled his mouth into a dubious frown.
“Yep.” Zeke dug out a wooden box from under his bed and put all his soldiers away. “Not pretty like Ruth or Aunt Lizzie, of course. And for sure not like Jon Watson’s ma, that Uncle Brock married.”
John had to agree. His sister and Caleb’s sisters-in-law were all very striking women, each in her unique way. Ruth with her long raven hair, Lizzie with her riot of golden curls and Abby with her bright coppery mane. Alongside them, Jane Harris looked like a drab little meadowlark in the company of a raven, a goldfinch and a robin. Still, the little lady from back East had a waifish charm that drew his eye far more than it ought to.
Zeke stacked his blocks into a neat pile in the far corner. “She ain’t a Montana kind of gal, that’s for sure.”
A yelp of laughter burst out of John, which set Barton gurgling along with him. “We’re agreed on that, son. You appear to know a whole heap about women.”
“I oughta.” Zeke winked. “Plenty of courting going on around here lately.” He continued to tidy his room in silence, then he added in a more serious tone, “I reckon Miss Harris needs somebody to take care of her.”
For some reason the boy’s words dug into John’s conscience like cold steel. “If she’s going to last in Montana, Miss Harris needs to learn how to take care of herself, son.”
A tentative tap sounded on Zeke’s door, followed by a bolder one. With a guilty start, John wondered how much of his conversation with the boy Jane Harris might have overheard.
Perhaps Zeke was pondering the same thing, for he looked a little shamefaced as he pulled the door open.
Before Jane Harris could get a word out, he launched into his apology. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick around and give you a hand with Barton, ma’am. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he hates carrots even worse than he hates peas. Night Horse explained to me about you being respons’ble in case I get hurt while my folks are gone.”
Jane Harris looked from Zeke to John and back, a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes. “Night Horse?”
“My Cheyenne name.” The gruffness of his voice took John aback.
“So you’re not Apache?” One slender hand flew up to cover her mouth—too late to prevent her words escaping.
Zeke scowled with boyish scorn. “Don’t you know nothing, ma’am? Apaches live way in the south. This here’s Cheyenne, Crow and Sioux country. Night Horse is a real live Cheyenne warrior chief, and he made me an ornery Cheyenne brave.”
“Honorary brave, Zeke.” John bit back a grin. So had Jane Harris, unless he missed his guess.
“Why is a Cheyenne warrior chief working as a ranch foreman?” The lady’s wide eyes betrayed a shade of fear. And possibly a glow of respect?
“Long story, ma’am. Long, dull story.”
“No it ain’t,” piped up Zeke.
John gave the boy a warning look, but addressed his words to Jane Harris. “Was there something you wanted, ma’am?”
“Ah—yes, there was, as a matter of fact. I’ve got the kitchen scrubbed down as best I can and I managed to save some of those beans. The scorched ones I fed to the pigs. It won’t be enough for supper, I’m afraid. Especially if Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid get home in time to join us. After I change my dress, I wondered if you gentlemen might give me a hand fixing something more.”
John rose from his seat on Zeke’s bed, little Barton gathered close to his chest. The baby blinked heavy eyelids and sucked on his thumb.
“I reckon we could do that, ma’am.” Somehow, during his conversation with Zeke, the flash of anger he’d felt toward Jane Harris had eased. “Later, I can show you how Cheyenne women keep their hands free to work when they’ve got little ones to mind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitefeather. Or should I call you Night Horse?”
He liked the sound of his Cheyenne name on her tongue. A little too much, perhaps.
“Plain John will be fine, ma’am.”
Chapter Four
“That cradleboard was a fine idea. Thank you…John.”
How would she have managed this past busy week without it? Jane wondered as she took a hasty bite of her own dinner, then offered Barton a spoonful of applesauce. Fortunately, the child liked fruit a great deal better than he liked vegetables.
“Glad I could help.” John glanced at his nephew and winked. “You seemed to have your hands full that first day.”
Except for Barton’s company, she and John were eating their midday meal alone. Zeke was in school and Caleb had ridden out to a place called Sweetgrass after breakfast to check on Ruth. An outbreak of scarlet fever among the Cheyenne children had kept her there for several days.
“You were kind to help me out after I was so ungracious.” Jane kept her eyes fixed on the baby. As she brought another spoonful of applesauce to his mouth, her hand trembled slightly. “I’ve wanted to apologize to you before this, but I never had the chance.” Or the nerve.
Over the past week, John Whitefeather had proven himself a very different kind of man than Emery Endicott. He did have a temper, though. Jane hadn’t wanted to risk rousing it by reminding him of the rocky start to their acquaintance.
“No harm done.” John reached for a biscuit.
His sudden movement made her flinch, but if he noticed, he pretended not to. He spread butter on his biscuit without missing a beat. “You seem to be getting along better, lately.”
Jane smiled to herself. If only he knew how many mistakes she’d made in the past few days. How many chores she’d had to do over two or three times until the result satisfied her. But she’d persevered. On the Kincaid ranch, she felt needed in a way she never had in all her years with Mrs. Endicott.
“If Mrs. Muldoon would tarry in Bismarck another few weeks, I might develop a knack for this domestic routine.”
As she glanced around the tidy kitchen and at the contented baby, a strange feeling swelled in Jane’s heart. Though she couldn’t be certain, she wondered if it might be…pride?
John reached over and tickled his nephew under the chin. “You and Barton got any big plans for this afternoon?”
“Nothing special.” Noticing John’s dinner plate was empty, she fetched him a slice of plum cake and a cup of coffee. “We washed the laundry and hung it out this morning. If I can work up the courage, I might fry a batch of doughnuts while Barton takes his nap.”
John bit into the cake. “This tastes good.” He sounded more than a little surprised. “I saw you hanging out the wash. That was a clever idea, tethering Barton to the clothesline so he wouldn’t wander off.”
She’d come up with it all on her own, too. The peculiar feeling in Jane’s heart burned warmer. “He’s steadier on his feet every day, and he does like to walk. Besides, it was too hard on my back, stooping to get wet clothes out of the basket with him in the cradleboard.”
Jane didn’t mention the fat green grasshopper she’d had to fish out of Barton’s mouth. Why he spit out peas and carrots, but not live insects, was more than she could figure.
“Maybe later you could bring this little buckeroo over to the corral and we could take him for a ride.” John leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of his coffee. “He always gets a kick out of that.”
“Are you certain it would be safe?”
Jane wiped Barton’s face and lifted him out of his high chair. For a moment, she cradled his warm, sturdy little body against hers. The swiftness and intensity of her fondness for the child frightened her. It would be hard enough to leave the Kincaid ranch when the time came, even without strong emotional ties.
She looked up and caught John watching her with intense, perplexing concentration. The blue of his eyes sparkled as clear and brilliant as sapphires. And twice as hard.
His stare stoked a sudden fevered blush right to the roots of Jane’s hair. She tried to break eye contact with him, only to discover she couldn’t. His piercing gaze held her, probing her secrets. Then he let her go and she found herself capable of breathing again.
“The boy’s not made of glass, Miss Harris.” He spoke quietly, as always, but in a tone that brooked no argument. “Even if he was, we’d have to toughen him up.”
“At the risk of shattering him?” Jane heard herself ask.
Where had this unaccustomed defiance come from? Had John Whitefeather’s relentless blue gaze planted it within her?
“I’m not going to set him on the back of a bucking bronco, ma’am. Just a gentle old mare who can’t do much better than walk. I’ll hold on to him good and tight in front of me.”
John held out a large brown hand to the baby. “What do you say, Thundercloud?”
Barton immediately grasped one of his uncle’s fingers and pulled it close to Jane’s face.
She thrust the baby into John’s arms, trying not to sound as alarmed as the sudden movement made her feel. “Is that his Cheyenne name?”
“That’s what it means. Ruth gave it to him because he makes a lot of noise for a critter so small. You’ll come riding with us to keep an eye on him, won’t you, ma’am?”
Jane shook her head with some vigor. “Except for that trip in from Whitehorn, I’ve never sat a horse in my life.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I would have made Lionel give us a wagon to drive out here even if I had to steal one. No two ways about it—you’ll have to learn to ride if you’re going to survive in Big Sky Country. Tell you what. I’ve got an old gelding who couldn’t work up a gallop if you dropped a jar of nitroglycerin behind him.”
A bubble of laughter swelled inside Jane, all the more buoyant for being so unexpected. It rose and burst from her lips. “I suppose I could try.”
“Sure you can. Unless I miss my guess, you’ve done plenty of things this past week that you’ve never tackled before.”
Did a hint of admiration warm his words?
“That’s true.” She’d made a fair job of them, too. But riding high off the ground on the back of such a large, powerful animal? “Then again, I’ve never heard of a person getting bucked off a washboard.”
John saddled both horses, though he had more than a few doubts that Jane Harris would show up for their ride. To his surprise, she did.
To his greater surprise, she looked almost beautiful.
In the week since her arrival, the scrapes and bruises on her face had healed. Suddenly, John noticed.
Somewhere in that trunk of Marie Kincaid’s, Jane had found a riding habit. The cloth was a little rumpled in places, but the fitted black jacket showed off the curve of her bosom in a way that made the collar of John’s shirt tighten. A ruffle of white lace at the throat emphasized the daintiness of her features. She might not be as striking a beauty as Ruth or Lizzie or Abby, but she was every inch a lady.
A lady far more suited to the refined city life back East than to the vital, rough-edged existence in Big Sky Country. She was a woman who needed a wealthy, cultured gentleman to pamper her the way she deserved. With a sudden pang of regret, John realized he wasn’t doing her any favors by helping her fit in around the ranch. Sooner or later, she’d figure out this wasn’t the place for her.
Then she’d go away.
“I hope we won’t be keeping you from your work.” Her voice held a note of uncertainty, as though she was fishing for any excuse not to do this.
John thought about the maverick filly he’d privately dubbed Cactus Heart. “I haven’t got a single thing in the world I’d rather do than take my nephew for a ride.”
Barton clearly felt the same way. He held his stout little arms out to the horses and babbled with delight. John mounted the mare and reached down to lift the baby from Jane’s arms.
She let him go reluctantly. “You will keep a tight hold on him, won’t you? He squirms like the dickens when he gets excited.”
“I know that, ma’am. Been around this young fellow since the day he was born.” Somehow, John felt he should resent her protectiveness of his nephew. But he couldn’t work up a pinch of the feeling that usually overwhelmed him when he was dealing with white folks.
Her arms looked strangely empty without the baby in them.
“I’m sorry,” said Jane.
John had never met a person so quick to say those words. They usually stuck tight in his own craw.
“You’re right, of course,” she continued. “It’s just that he’s my responsibility and I’ve become very attached to him in the short time we’ve been together.”
John knew that, too. It showed in the way she held the boy. It glowed in her smile and warmed her words when she spoke to him. That soft, maternal quality flattered her appearance far more than all Marie Kincaid’s fancy clothes. Maybe that was why he found it impossible to resent her.
John Whitefeather had never been much given to smiling, and he didn’t smile now. But he cast Jane a look he hoped would reassure her.
“Don’t you fret about young Barton. I’m partial to the little rascal myself. I’ll see he doesn’t come to any harm.”
Too late, John realized Barton’s pretty nanny would need his help to mount the gelding.
So did she, by the look of it.
“You and Barton go ahead and ride. I’ll just watch from here.” Sounding more relieved than anything, she waved them on their way.
Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed one of the ranch hands approaching the corral.
“Can I be of service, ma’am?” Floyd Cobbs removed his hat. John didn’t think the fellow was much to look at, but by all accounts Floyd fancied himself a ladies’ man. “Help you onto that horse, maybe?”
John’s brows tightened into a scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on the Price boy, Floyd?”
“I’ve been watching him real close, boss.” The words were respectful enough. To John’s ears at least, the tone was anything but. “He’s having hisself a little siesta right now, so I thought I’d stretch my legs.”
The cowboy turned his attention back to Jane. “Pardon my manners, ma’am. I reckon we haven’t been properly introduced. Name’s Floyd Cobbs. I’ve been working the Kincaid spread for over three years now.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cobbs.” She didn’t sound pleased. In fact, John could have sworn she took a couple of small steps back, until the corral fence prevented her from retreating any farther. “M-my name’s Jane Harris. I’m just here for a short while to give Mrs. Kincaid a hand with the children and the house.”
She reminded John for all the world of a rabbit doe cornered by a weasel—skin paler than usual, movements twitchy.
A blaze of rage kindled deep in his belly, but John did his best to ignore it. The lady wasn’t in any real danger. And besides, he couldn’t look after every stray who crossed his path.
“Well, that’s real fine.” The cowboy eyed Jane slowly from the crest of her saucily veiled hat to the tips of her high button boots peeping out from beneath the skirt of her riding habit. “Maybe you’ll take a fancy to Whitehorn and decide to stay. If there’s one thing wrong with the state of Montana, it’s that we need more women.”
John fought the urge to scramble down from his horse and pummel the insolent cowboy. What right did he have, though? Miss Jane Harris was nothing to him.
“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound very certain. Was her little Western adventure beginning to pale already?
“What do you say, ma’am? Want me to help you into the saddle?” Floyd spoke the words in an innocent tone, but John thought he detected a mocking double meaning.
“T-thank you for the offer.” She eyed Floyd Cobbs as if he was a giant-size bedbug. “But I don’t believe I’ll ride today, after all.”
“Good enough, ma’am.” Floyd grinned and took another step toward her. “Then you and me can keep each other company here while Mr. Whitefeather trots young Kincaid around.”
Absorbed in watching Jane and the cowboy, and trying to sort out his unduly strong reaction, John didn’t notice Barton dig his fists into the mare’s mane and yank. The horse tossed her head and whinnied. If she’d been a couple of years younger, she might have reared.
“On second thought,” gasped Jane, “perhaps I’d better stay as close as possible to Barton, in case he gets himself in trouble.” She ducked past Floyd Cobbs and fled into the corral.
Jane stuck one foot in the gelding’s stirrup—the wrong foot—then grabbed hold of the saddle horn and tried to hoist herself up. She fell back into Floyd’s waiting arms.
“Careful there, little lady, you could hurt yourself.”
The way Floyd spoke the words little lady, as though they were some kind of endearment, set rage buzzing in John’s head like a swarm of bees.
“Set Miss Harris on her feet, Cobbs,” he rumbled, with all the menace of a death threat. “Then hustle yourself back to the bunkhouse to watch Price.”
“If she’d have let me help her mount in the first place, she wouldn’t have fell.” The cowboy hoisted Jane upright, his hands lingering on her far too long and far too intimately to suit John.
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” With an exaggerated bow and a parting scowl at John, Floyd Cobbs meandered back to the bunkhouse.
Jane stood pale and tremulous as an aspen leaf.
“Are you hurt?” John edged his horse toward her.
She forced a tight little smile that didn’t fool him for a second. “Only my dignity.”
“Can we try again, then? You take Barton back and I’ll lift you both into the saddle. Then you can pass him to me once I’ve mounted.”
“Well…”
Before she could object, he lowered the baby into her arms and sprang from his saddle. Then he lifted them onto the gelding’s back, letting go the instant he could tell she was seated securely. The sensation of her soft, slender frame in his arms unsettled him too much to risk prolonging it.
Words of protest died on Jane’s lips before she could get them out. She gave a little laugh that sounded both nervous and a bit excited. Barton chortled.
“That’s all very well for you, Thundercloud.” She nuzzled the baby’s fat cheek. “You’re more accustomed to being on horseback than I am.”
Back astride his own mare, John reached over and took the baby from her. “Hold your reins loose, now, and hang on to the saddle horn if you have to.”
“How do I make him go?” Jane clutched the saddle horn so tightly her whole hand whitened.
“Don’t worry about that, today. He’ll follow along wherever the mare goes. They’re kind of like an old married couple—easy with each other and always sticking close together.”
He urged the mare to a slow walk and, true to his word, the gelding followed.
“Is that what your parents are like?”
Jane’s casual question almost knocked John out of his saddle. He’d been thinking of old Bearspeaker and Walks on Ice.
A hundred possible responses raced through his mind, some bitter, all pained. “My folks didn’t get the chance to be that way.”
For a few moments the horses continued their sedate walk, while Barton wriggled in John’s arms and made loud noises of delight.
So loud, they almost drowned out Jane’s next words. “I’m sorry. Did they pass on long ago? My father was lost at sea.” She balked for an instant. “Then my mother and my brother died of the typhoid when I was twelve.”
John didn’t intend to answer. He had never talked about the deaths of his parents and his brothers with anyone. Not Bearspeaker. Not even Ruth.
But Jane’s experience paralleled his own too closely not to acknowledge. “Mine were killed by white buffalo hunters when I was ten.”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, and he hardly noticed her horse pulling alongside his. Then her hand settled on his arm, with no more force than a hovering butterfly. Through the sturdy cotton of this shirt, her gentle touch communicated so many things words couldn’t express.
Understanding. Sympathy. Comfort.
Sometimes he could bring himself to offer such gifts to others. Receiving them, especially from so foreign a creature as Miss Jane Harris, gave him a chilling sense of vulnerability. A warrior of the Big Sky could not afford that dangerous indulgence.
Abruptly he pulled away from her and wheeled his mare back toward the ranch house.
If John Whitefeather had lashed out and struck her, as Emery had so many times, Jane could not have been more shocked. Or dismayed.
His guarded confession of their painful common bond had rocked her. It had also called to her on a level deeper than her fears, and she had battled her fears to respond. She had little to offer a man like John Whitefeather. But she did have a heart that remembered and understood the loss of a family to cruel, capricious forces beyond a child’s control.
She’d reached out to him, and he had slammed the door in her face. It might have hurt less if she had not sensed that door momentarily held ajar for her, a warm hearth light flickering from within. Or had she only imagined that because she wanted it to be true?
The way she had imagined strength and protectiveness in Emery’s character where there had been only a domineering will and an easily provoked temper.
Men had other ways of hurting a woman that left no visible bruises or scars. From what she’d come to know of John Whitefeather over the past week, Jane doubted she had reason to fear for her physical safety with him. Just now, he had served her warning that she needed to be cautious around him, all the same.
The more she found herself drawn to him, the more cautious she must be.
Perhaps her poor gelding was as startled by the abrupt turn of John’s mare as Jane herself. With more energy than he’d shown since she mounted him, the horse swung about to follow his companion, speeding his pace to catch up. Jane bit back a scream and hung on for dear life.
As she bounced and swayed in the saddle, the hard-packed earth beneath the gelding’s hooves looked a long way down. She imagined it lunging up to meet her, like an enormous brown fist.
She was almost faint with relief when her horse caught up with John’s at the corral fence. Then a fresh worry rocked her back in the saddle. Would John Whitefeather pass Barton back to her, then lift the two of them down off the gelding’s back?
After the way he’d rebuffed her, she wasn’t sure she could stand the sensation of his hands on her body. Nor the fleeting moment, as her feet touched the ground, when she stood in the circle of his arms with the baby cradled between them. Why, she’d sooner throw herself to the ground and be done with it. Experience had taught her that bones healed easier than hearts.
Fortunately, Ruth and Caleb Kincaid were waiting for them. As Ruth held up her arms to receive little Barton, Jane extracted her feet from the stirrups. Clinging to the saddle horn, she melted off the gelding’s back until her feet gratefully touched the earth.
She shrank from a sharp look Caleb Kincaid shot her. Despite his gruffly respectful manner, Jane knew he didn’t have much use for her. But his wife liked her and so did his sons. That made three more friends than she had back in Boston.
Jane couldn’t bear the thought of being exiled from them so soon. If only some kindly matchmaker in Bismarck would set up the widowed Mrs. Muldoon with a new husband. Then she might stay put in North Dakota and leave Jane to the relative peace and security she’d found in Whitehorn.
Chapter Five
“That girl needs a husband.” Ruth Kincaid looked up from her beadwork at her husband and brother.
John spared a glance from his late evening checker game at the kitchen table with Caleb. His sister had a determined look in her eye. It made him uneasy.
“What girl?” Caleb asked absently as John jumped two of his checkers.
“Why, Jane Harris, of course. What other girl is there?”
John plucked Caleb’s black checkers from the board and said, “King me,” as though he hadn’t heard his sister.
But his conscience squirmed like a heifer under the branding iron. In fact, he wondered if the memory of Jane’s white face and stricken eyes had been seared into his brain along with the recollection of her hand squeezing his arm. Like a brand, they stung. They would never go away.
And in some baffling fashion, they had put her claiming mark upon him.
“She’s a willing little thing.” Ruth bowed her dark head over her beadwork again, but kept on talking as the men jumped their red and black disks across the checkerboard. “She works hard and she’s eager to learn, but she needs looking after. I can’t help feeling bad that she came all this way and lost everything in that train wreck on our account.”
Caleb’s head snapped up. “It’s not our fault the fool gal didn’t even stop to read the letter we sent.”
Hard as John tried to clamp his mouth shut, the words spilled out. “I reckon there’s more to that than she’s letting on, Caleb.”
His sister nodded. “There’s much more to Jane Harris than she’s willing to tell.”
Turning his attention back to the checkerboard, Caleb muttered, “Don’t expect an argument from me on that score. I sent off a wire to the Boston police yesterday, just to make sure she isn’t on the wrong side of the law.”
“Oh, Caleb, of all the foolishness! That girl hasn’t got it in her to hurt a fly. Can you imagine her holding up a bank or a train?”
The iron-willed rancher looked shamefaced by his wife’s gentle rebuke. “I don’t suppose I can, at that. I’ll admit, she’s been real handy around here while you were gone, and the boys have taken a shine to her. Just something about that gal doesn’t sit right with me. She always looks as though she expects I’m going to bite her head off.”
“I’m sure she’d rather you did that than telegraph the Boston police about her behind her back. If you’d just give her half a chance you’d soon see what a nice little thing she is.” Ruth concentrated on rethreading her needle. “I think you don’t like her because she reminds you too much of Marie.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Caleb scowled at the checkerboard as John handily won the game.
Had Caleb forgotten that he’d openly compared Jane to his late wife on the night she arrived? John wondered.
The men set up the board for a rematch, and for a while the kitchen was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire in the stove and the click of checkers.
“She’s bound and determined not to go back East,” Ruth murmured at last, almost as though she was talking to herself.
John swallowed a grin. His sister had learned this trick from their aunt, Walks on Ice. Raising a subject again and again with a question here, a chance remark there, until she wore Bearspeaker down, like a hunting party trailing a wounded buffalo.
“I don’t reckon she has much to go back to, poor child.” Ruth shook her head.
His sister’s words hit John like a gunshot.
He knew perfectly well Jane Harris had nothing and no one waiting for her back in Boston. If he hadn’t been ambushed by painful memories from his past or terrified by his own involuntary confession, he might have paid closer attention when she’d told him about the deaths of her family.
Most folks might say it was a greater tragedy to have your parents murdered than to have them die of sickness or be lost at sea. Either way, they were still dead.
At least he’d had Ruth and their Cheyenne band. As far as he could tell, Jane Harris had been left completely alone in a pitiless city. All at once, John felt a sense of responsibility for this winsome little stray who’d landed here by mistake. Setting her adrift again in a few weeks’ time with the price of a train ticket out of their lives suddenly felt like a callous act of cruelty.
“We need to find her a husband,” said Ruth. “No reason a smart, pretty little woman like her couldn’t have her pick of the men around here.”
Part of John had to agree that it was a sensible plan. A less sensible part of him resisted the idea of marrying Jane Harris off.
“It’ll have to be a fellow who can look after her decently.” John pushed one of his checkers forward, and Caleb promptly hopscotched all over the board at his expense. “She’s not strong and she’s not used to this country.”
Exactly the opposite of what he’d need in a wife, if he could ever make up his mind to take one.
“Lionel Briggs has a good business,” volunteered Caleb. “An undertaker never lacks for work.” Jumping John’s last piece, he packed away the checkerboard and retired to his favorite chair by the stove.
“I wouldn’t wish a master like Lionel Briggs on a stray dog.” John shuddered at the thought of the liveryman’s cold hands on Jane. “Let alone husband for a lady like Miss Harris.”
Ruth nodded. “They say his first wife died just to get away from him. Besides, I want to invite any likely suitors out to the ranch for dinner to meet Jane. I doubt Mr. Briggs would want to darken our doorstep any more than I’d want him in my house.”
“On account of his pa being killed by the Pawnee?” Caleb lit his pipe and took a deep puff. “Good enough, then. Scratch Lionel off the list of husband candidates.”
“There’s the butcher, Mr. Lundburg,” suggested Ruth.
John shook his head. “He drinks.”
“Lou Lambert.” Caleb threw down the name like a challenge. “Hard worker. Churchgoer. Got a good spread.”
“And seven kids.” John stalked over to the stove and poured himself more tea. “Jane wouldn’t last a month.”
Several more possible suitors were proposed. John found some damning objection to every one.
Caleb shook his head. “We’re never going to get this gal married off if you’re going to be so particular.” He poked the stem of his pipe at John for emphasis. “It isn’t like she’s got a big dowry or comes from a fine family or is any raving beauty.”
John didn’t care for the knowing, slightly mocking glint in Caleb’s eyes that reminded him of the warning, “Be careful of this little maverick filly.”
Did Caleb think John was objecting to these other men because he wanted Jane Harris for himself? Why, if Ruth had put his name forward, he’d be the first to name a dozen reasons why he’d be wrong for Jane and she for him.
“Winslow Gray.” Ruth spoke the young doctor’s name in the same tone John had heard poker players announce a royal flush. She pinned her brother with a stare that dared him to find fault with her latest choice.
“He seems like a good enough fellow.” John wondered why he begrudged Dr. Gray this meager praise. “He hasn’t been in Whitehorn long, though, and nobody knows much about him.”
Caleb chuckled. “I’d say that makes him a perfect match for our Miss Harris. And if it turns out she isn’t anxious to stay in Montana, he’s got no ties to keep him here.”
“That’s settled then.” Ruth folded up her beadwork and laid it in her work basket of woven reeds. “When you go into town tomorrow, Caleb, drop by Dr. Gray’s dispensary and invite him out to dinner on Saturday night.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Caleb lavished a fond smile on his wife, and suddenly John felt like an outsider.
Would he ever experience that kind of bond with a woman? Where words were no longer necessary and a shared look could set them apart from the rest of humanity—in their own tiny kingdom with a population of two?
John realized his sister was speaking to him. What was she saying?
“I’ll expect you to praise Jane up to Dr. Gray when he comes to dinner.”
“You praise her. I’ll be out at Sweetgrass.”
“Go ahead, just be back in time for supper.”
He headed off to bed, muttering about bossy little sisters and trying to convince himself that Winslow Gray would make the perfect husband for Jane.
“We’re having company for supper tonight.” Ruth handed Jane a dinner plate to dry. “Why don’t you fish a pretty dress from Marie’s trunk and I’ll warm a couple of irons on the fire to press the wrinkles out of it?”
“Company?” said Jane in the same tone she might have said “Snakes?”
It had taken a while, but she’d finally grown accustomed to Ruth Kincaid’s family. Even her sometimes gruff husband and her often pensive brother. Jane no longer jumped or gasped when either of the men made a sudden move toward her. Her heart hardly sped up at all when one of them raised his voice. Now, the thought of a strange man at the supper table set her stomach aflutter.
Ruth nodded. “Caleb often takes pity on the bachelors and widowers in town and invites one of them out for a square meal. I think he remembers what it was like when he and Zeke had to shift for themselves to get a bite to eat in the evenings.”
“Of course,” murmured Jane. “That’s kind of him.”
How selfish to think only of how the presence of unfamiliar company would affect her, she chided herself. When this poor man was probably looking forward to a good, home-cooked meal after weeks of boardinghouse or saloon fare.
“We’ll eat in the dining room tonight,” said Ruth. “Put out the good china and silver. I’ll roast a nice rib of beef.”
“I could wait on the table for you.” Jane offered a hopeful suggestion.
That would be the perfect solution. From her years in Beacon Hill, she knew well-trained servants were practically invisible. She wouldn’t be expected to make conversation with this strange man, only fill his plate or fetch him a drink. Afterward, she could eat her own meal in the quiet sanctuary of the kitchen.
Ruth glanced up from her vigorous scrubbing of a tin pot. “Don’t be silly. You’ll eat with the rest of us, like always. We’ll set all the food on the table beforehand so everybody can help themselves.”
“What about sweets?” Jane tried to disguise the pleading tone in her voice. “Tea and coffee?”
“We can both fetch those from the kitchen when the time comes. Now I don’t want to hear another word about you not eating with the rest of the family. You and Dr. Gray will have plenty to talk about. He’s from back East, too.”
The tumbler Jane was drying slipped out of her hands and crashed to the floor.
“I’m sorry! What a butterfingers. I should have been paying more attention to what I was doing. I’ll get the broom.”
“Don’t fret about it.” Ruth grabbed the dustpan and held it while Jane swept up the broken glass. “As I was saying, Dr. Gray is from back East. Saint Louis, I think Caleb said.”
Jane let out a quivering breath. Saint Louis was a long way from Boston. In fact, Mrs. Endicott would have called it “out West.” Even if this doctor had been from the Atlantic coast, that didn’t mean he’d necessarily be acquainted with her former employer. There must have been a few physicians between Portland, Maine, and Charleston, South Carolina, who Mrs. Endicott hadn’t consulted about her various aches and pains.
“I have a notion to heat some water for a bath,” said Ruth when the last of the dishes were put away without further breakage. “Might as well wash our hair while we’re about it. I brew a rinse of vinegar and herbs that’ll make your hair shine like a mink’s pelt.”
Jane replied with a halfhearted smile. It was good of Ruth to fuss over her like this, especially since she wouldn’t be staying around much longer. She couldn’t enjoy it, though. The thought of entertaining company tonight left her vaguely bilious. The men would probably take a glass of whiskey before dinner. Perhaps more than one. She remembered all too vividly the effect of strong drink upon men’s manners and tempers.
Undaunted by Jane’s lack of enthusiasm, Ruth Kincaid nudged her through preparations for the evening, while Zeke kept the baby amused. The two women oiled and buffed the dining table. Ruth seared the roast and put it in the oven, while Jane peeled potatoes and set them to soak. Together they baked plum puffs for dessert. All the while, Ruth sang the praises of Dr. Winslow Gray.
When all the work had been done to Ruth’s satisfaction, she contrived that Jane should bathe first.
“What do you think of this?” Ruth asked when Jane emerged from her bath with hair cleaner and more fragrant than she could ever remember.
Staring at the swath of taffeta in Ruth’s arms, Jane gnawed on her lower lip. How had Ruth guessed that this dress, the color of daffodils in warm spring sunshine, was her favorite of all the beautiful gowns in Marie Kincaid’s trunk?
Not to mention the most impossible to wear outside the privacy of her bedroom.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit too fancy just for dinner?”
“Where else are you going to wear it?” Ruth held the gown up in front of Jane and nodded her approval. “No matter what the sign outside Big Mike’s saloon says, Whitehorn doesn’t have a proper opera house like they’ve got in Denver. Caleb tells me Marie used to dress up like this all the time. I say it’s too pretty not to wear.”
“Do you think it’ll be warm enough? The nights are still rather chilly and I’m prone to the cold.”
“It will leave your shoulders bare,” Ruth agreed.
Though Jane didn’t dare admit it, that was what made this dress so unsuitable. The wounds Emery’s nails had gouged were finally healing, but they had left scars on her flesh that might never disappear. A physician would be sure to recognize what they represented. That she was a woman who’d merited a beating at the hands of a man she’d cared for.
Just framing the notion in her mind left Jane nauseous with shame.
“I’ve got it!” Ruth thrust the dress into Jane’s arms and charged up the stairs.
She returned a moment later bearing a cream-colored shawl of the finest brushed wool. “This will keep you from catching cold. Just pull it around your shoulders if you feel a draft. Besides, catching cold will be in a good cause if you can catch a—”
“Catch what?”
“Catch…a chance…” sputtered Ruth, “to enjoy some fresh company. You must be getting so tired of seeing nobody but Caleb and me and the children. And John, of course.”
Jane shook her head. “I could never get tired of any of you. You’ve all been so kind to me after I showed up here, out of the blue and by my own silly mistake. I love this place. It’s so solid and safe.”
“You wouldn’t have said that a few years back when the winters were so bad. Plenty of folks from the East think this country is full of danger. I’m not sure there’s anyplace a body’s safe from all harm. Even if there was, you might be bored to death.”
“I’d take my chances.” Jane hoped her reply sounded lighthearted.
Matchmaking must be in the air, John decided ruefully, as he rode back to the ranch from Sweetgrass.
He’d first suspected something was afoot when Walks on Ice had introduced him to a distant cousin who’d come to visit from her reservation farther north.
“This is Moon Raven. Her grannie is my cousin. She’s a good worker, like all the women in our family. Smart and respectful. Pretty, too, isn’t she, Night Horse?”
John couldn’t deny it. The girl was attractive, with hair the color of her namesake bird and eyes the hue of ripe wild plums.
“Welcome to Sweetgrass, Moon Raven. I hope you’ll have a good visit.”
To Walks on Ice he asked, “How are the children? Have any more come down with the fever?”
The old woman shook her head. “Not since Ruth put all the sick ones together, away from the rest. Two are still weak, but the others are better. Moon Raven was a great help to Ruth.”
“I’m sure she was. Thank you, Moon Raven.”
“Your sister is a skillful healer. I was honored to work with her and learn from her.”
Walks on Ice beamed. “I like a girl with a mannerly tongue in her mouth. You can tell she’s been well brought up—no black robe schools to fill her head with foolishness. How old are you, Night Horse?”
“Have you forgotten how to count, Auntie? Your hands brought me into this world. You should know it was thirty years ago.”
“As many as that?” The old woman shook her head dolefully. “And still no children. My Lame Elk is younger than you, yet he has four fine sons and a new little daughter who is the joy of his eyes.”
John didn’t need to be told. He had noted the arrival of each new addition to Lame Elk’s family with joy. And envy.
“Lame Elk is a lucky man. Well, I must go talk to Bearspeaker. Goodbye.” Before Walks on Ice could get another word out, John strode away.
If he thought he’d left Moon Raven behind, he was wrong.
“So you met our pretty visitor, Night Horse?” Bearspeaker eyed John slyly. “What did you think of her?”
“A fine girl. How’s the hunting been? Do you need any supplies from town?”
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