Montana Bride. Jillian Hart

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      “No.” The word sounded abrupt, and she winced. She was stressed, that was all, and she hated that it showed. “I was close to my mother and grandmother.”

      “Was?” His deep voice gentled, asking for more information. He turned toward her with a hint of concern in his posture as he loomed on the seat next to her.

      “Scarlet fever.” She swallowed hard, holding back the memories of being fifteen and their sole caretaker. “We all fell ill, but my case was light compared to theirs. My mother went first. It was—” Words failed her. She didn’t know how to begin the story about her mother.

      “I lost my ma, too.” He swallowed hard and although the night hid him fully from her sight, she could feel the essence of him and the strength of his heart. “It was like the sun going out. Like morning without a dawn to light it.”

      “Yes.” Her jaw dropped, surprised this giant of a man understood. Not that she dared believe him too much. “Gran never recovered. She said she’d lost everything.”

      “Everything? What about you? She still had her granddaughter.”

      “Two days later, she was gone, too.” How did she explain? The circumstances of her birth and her existence were a shame to her grandmother and a tragedy for her mother. She laid her hand on her stomach, thinking of the babe within. Life was complicated and love was a myth.

      “We’re here.” Austin’s announcement broke through her thoughts, scattering them on the wind like snowflakes. “This is home.”

      “Home.” Relief ebbed into her. She saw nothing but a slope of a roofline against the iridescent black sky. A good strong roof, by her guess, one that would keep out the wet and the cold. Sturdy walls that would provide the shelter her baby would need.

      “You wait for me to help you.” He sounded stern, but the harsh notes did not ring true. He hopped to the ground, hurrying around the buggy to offer her his hand. Such a strong hand. He’d swooped her off the seat and onto her feet before she could blink.

      “It’s not much,” he said, grabbing her satchel. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Pole over at the mercantile to add your name to my account. You can buy all the frills and fabric you want to make curtains and such. I remember how my ma was, and my sisters are always stitching something pretty for their homes.”

      “You have sisters?”

      “It’s slick here.” His boots thudded on wood steps. “I’ll have to get this shoveled off. Yep, I have one sister and two sisters-in-law, which means I have two brothers as well.”

      “And they live in the area?” Her soft alto was calm and carefully controlled, but he heard the curiosity.

      “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He kicked the snow from his boots against the siding and opened the door. The scent of freshly cut wood met him. “You would have thought having so many ladies around me would have civilized me better.”

      “Is your sister older?”

      “Younger.” He winced, wondering what she saw when she looked at him. A man older than she’d expected, no doubt, and that pained him. He’d known it was unrealistic but when he’d met her at the train he’d hoped she would instantly like him. That there would be a spark, some recognition between them that would tell him he’d made the right decision. It had been an impulsive decision to offer her marriage, one he wanted neither of them to regret.

      He struck a match and lit the wall sconce. The wick leapt to life and the flame chased away the darkness to reveal the sitting room, full of windows with old sheets for curtains. His sister was always offering to sew for him, but he didn’t need frills. Now, as he studied the sparse room, he fought off a sense of shame. He wished he had been able to build a bigger home for Willa.

      “I’m afraid there’s a lot of gussying up for you to do.” He covered his feelings with a grin. “My sister offered to sew and fancy up the place, but in the end I thought you might want to do things your way. Make this good and truly your home, too.”

      “I see.” Her eyes widened like a deer facing a hungry hunter. She said nothing more, gazing at the sofa he’d ordered from Chicago so his wife would have a comfortable place to sit with her sewing, and at the furniture he and his pa had made long ago before Ma’s passing. End tables, a rocking chair, two deep wooden chairs and a window seat.

      “This isn’t the only room.” She gestured toward the closed doors along the end of the room.

      “No.” He lit a table lamp. “There’s a kitchen and two bedrooms. We can add on as more children come.”

      She blushed, dipped her chin and focused on working the buttons on the tattered coat she wore. His wedding ring glinted on her slender hand, moving a little because it was a bit too big. He’d had to guess at the size. In the end, his sister and sisters-in-law had helped him and he’d simply gone with their advice. They had offered their advice on more than the ring, and those words drove him now.

      “Come, sit and warm up.” He rose and held out his hand, waiting for her to come to him. “You have had a hard journey and you need to rest.”

      “Rest? There’s supper to make. Is the kitchen through one of those doors?” She gestured toward the wall where three doors led to the different rooms of the house. The last button released and she shrugged out of her coat.

      “First things first. You need to warm up.” He lifted the worn garment from her slim shoulders, breathing in the scent of roses and sweet, warm woman. Tenderness welled up with a strength he hadn’t predicted and shone through like a light in the dark.

      The coat she’d worn had hidden so much, he realized as he folded it over his arm and helped her settle on the sofa. She was smaller than the bulk of the garment had suggested, a wee wisp who looked overworked and underfed. He noticed the patches on her dress were carefully sewn but there were many. He hung up her coat, frowning. Her advertisement had said she was in great need of a husband and a home. She had not exaggerated.

      “I want to tell you right off. I am not the best cook.” She gazed up at him apologetically. “Although, in truth, I am not the worst.”

      “I’m not picky. I will be grateful not to eat my own cooking for a change.” He knelt at the hearth to stir the embers. “You don’t have to worry about it tonight. My sister brought over a meal to warm up. She wanted to make things easier for you.”

      Disbelief pinched adorable wrinkles around the rosebud mouth he’d been trying not to look at. Because when he did, he had to wonder what it would be like to kiss those petal-soft lips. The thought made blood roar through his veins. He was thankful the embers caught to the wood he added, so he could retreat to the relative safety of the kitchen before his thoughts got ahead of him. He shoved to his feet.

      “You wait here.” He tossed her what he hoped was a smile. “Get comfortable.”

      “You have a nice home, Austin.” She watched him cross the room, unable to look away.

      “It’s yours, too. You may as well start planning how you are going to change it.” A dimple flirted with one corner of his mouth before he disappeared through one of the doors.

      She caught a glimpse of counters СКАЧАТЬ