Heartland Courtship. Lyn Cote

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      The idea had appeal. But she would be here alone every night, perhaps for the rest of her life.

      In the clearing, Rachel and Brennan faced each other. “Thee doesn’t think I am really in danger of them coming here again tonight?”

      Brennan bumped the toe of his boot into a tussock of wild, dry grass. “No, not because the three show any sense, but they’re probably all passed out from drink by now.”

      Rachel stared at the ground, listening to the frogs in the nearby creek.

      “I’ll bar my door,” she said with a lift of her chin, which belied her inner trembling.

      “Maybe you’d be better off if I didn’t hang around any longer.”

      “Brennan Merriday, in case thee has not noticed by now, I am not a woman who gives way to pressure from others. I have hired thee and I expect thee will show up for breakfast tomorrow and continue the work that still needs doing here.”

      He looked up.

      And suddenly she was very aware of how alone they were here just outside her door. Funny sensations jiggled in her stomach. “You were very brave,” she murmured.

      He started digging at the tussock of grass again with the toe of his boot.

      Her mind flashed back to her schoolgirl days. She’d watched boys do this when they talked to girls they liked but didn’t want to show it. Did he like her that way?

      She turned abruptly. “I bid thee good night.”

      “Okay, Miss Rachel, I’ll head to my place then. See you in the mornin’.”

      She didn’t trust herself to reply. The desire to hold him here and the residual fear had worsened and she was afraid her voice would give her away. She entered, shut the door and lifted the bar into place. Few cabins had such. But Noah had insisted on this and now she understood why.

      Once inside, she scanned the inside of her new home. Sunny had helped her wash the dishes so there was nothing to do. Noah had made her a rocking chair as a gift. She sat in it now and tried not to feel her lonely state. She picked up the socks she’d started to knit for Brennan as a going away thank-you. The thought hit her as unwelcome.

      For just a second, she imagined Brennan Merriday sitting on a chair across from her, whittling the way he always did. She was knitting and the two of them enjoyed that companionable quiet that happily married couples sometimes shared.

      Where did that come from?

      She shook off this foolishness, put down her knitting and lifted her small portable desk. She began working again on a recipe she’d thought of, something with chocolate and nuts no man could resist. Except Brennan Merriday in one of his touchy moods.

      She would have to be very careful around him—he was too handsome for his own good—and hers—and he was staying to help her. She thought of his courtesies. Brennan Merriday treated her like an attractive woman, not a spinster. This alone must be working on her, drawing her to him.

      But he carried some deep wound and would be leaving very soon. Even if he was momentarily attracted to her, nothing would come of it. Nothing ever had. And she’d accepted being alone, hadn’t she?

      * * *

      Brennan marched to town, boiling for a fight. Cold reason halted him a few yards from the saloon. Only a fool barged into to a three-to-one fight. He planned his strategy and sidled to a side window. What he saw flummoxed him.

      He entered the saloon and Sam was alone, wiping down the bar. “What’s wrong? Customers find out you were watering the whiskey?”

      Sam gave him the eye. “That’s an unfounded accusation. It might have been better if I had tonight. Some people just don’t know when to stop.”

      Brennan leaned against the bar. “What happened?”

      “Had to kick out a bunch earlier. They drank too much too fast and wanted to pick a fight with anybody who came near.”

      “I know the type.” He described the three and Sam nodded. Brennan continued, “Someone must have told them that a Southerner lived around here. And they wanted to run me out of town. They actually started a fight in front of the lady I work for.”

      The barkeep rubbed his face with his big hands. “That’s not right, fighting in front of a decent woman. Had to show my rifle to get rid of them. Most locals left. Tame crowd lives around here. The troublemakers are probably on the boat that brought them by now.”

      Brennan chewed on this. “Okay. Thanks.” He offered his hand to the man.

      “When you coming in just for that tongue wag?”

      “Soon.” Brennan left with a wave, not satisfied. What if after he left town, rowdies came looking for him and bothered Miss Rachel? He felt her again in his arms, so petite and slight. A fierce protectiveness reared inside him. He couldn’t leave her unprotected. How could he make sure no one would bother her?

      * * *

      The next morning, Rachel hadn’t experienced such quaking since the morning she’d left her father’s home in Pennsylvania. Under the clear, late-June sky, she drew in a deep breath and let Mr. Merriday help her down from the two-wheeled pony cart she’d borrowed from Noah’s neighbors. The blue sky did not sport even one cloud. When would the rain come?

      Brennan’s strong, steady hand contrasted with her shakiness. After he’d held her close last night, now she had trouble looking him in the eye. She felt herself blush and turned her face away.

      She’d filled several large trays with baked goods and Brennan had set them in the back of the cart. Today she would launch Rachel’s Sweets, what she’d come here to do, what her future hinged upon.

      “I still think you should call it Miss Rachel’s Sweets,” Brennan grumbled.

      She realized then that she still held his strong, calloused hand, not for aid but for comfort. This jolted her. Was she going to start having foolish ideas? No.

      Scolding herself for this lapse, she quickly smoothed her skirts. “But Miss might imply to some that I cannot cook since no man married me.” She repeated her objection with an attempt at humor. Why was she so nervous? No one was going to arrest her for selling sweets.

      “The name of your business needs some swank. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

      She had to admit that having this man with her bolstered her and she didn’t like that, couldn’t let herself depend on him. Brennan Merriday had made it clear he was staying just so long and then heading north.

      She turned from him. “Well, I’m a Quaker and we don’t go for ‘swank.’ And my baked goods don’t need that to sell. Just a lot of creamy butter and sweet sugar.” She walked briskly toward the rear of the cart.

      There her products lay on tin trays, covered with spotless, crisply starched white dishcloths. Yesterday Brennan had rigged up a sling that would support the tray and then go around her neck to help her carry it.

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