Montana Wife. Jillian Hart

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      A steer bawled after her in complaint.

      One thing about hard work, it required all of her concentration. She’d had less time to grieve or to worry about Dayton’s comments on the bank as she’d hurried through her necessary household chores.

      The path of gold she followed gave way to a sizable clearing. Neat stalks of straw lay seasoning on the ground and at the far edge of the clearing was her Kirk perched on the wagon seat. His hat was pulled low to shade his face and his bare torso shone red-brown from a hard day in the sun. Why, he looked more man than boy as he handled the team.

      She was proud of him and the bubble of love that expanded within her every time she saw him, so sweet and pure and unbreakable, remained. Kol would want her to be strong for their sons. She steeled her spine, sure of her course.

      “Mr. Lindsay?”

      She could see his boots on the other side of the threshing machine.

      He didn’t answer. Did he know she was here?

      “Hold up, Kirk!” Lindsay’s bellow rose above the machinery, booming like thunder. “Ease up on the horses. Keep the reins short once they stop.”

      The man emerged from behind the machine. Rayna saw a flash of bronzed skin and muscled shoulder as he thrust his arms into a blue work shirt. He shrugged the garment into place without bothering to button up, offering glimpses of a strong chest.

      Rayna’s face heated. She’d never seen another man without his shirt. She didn’t know where to look.

      “Good. I’ve been waiting for you.” Lindsay hefted up the ten-gallon jug as if it weighed nothing and drank from it with long, deep pulls.

      Didn’t he intend to button his shirt?

      “Ma! Did you see? Daniel let me drive the team! And I handled ’em good, too. Just the way Pa showed me.”

      “I saw. Your pa would be proud of you.”

      “Do you think?”

      “He’s done a fine job.” Daniel Lindsay handed over the water with a brief nod of approval. “It looks like your ma has brought your supper. Sit down and eat, boy. You deserve a rest.”

      Kirk dug into the basket. He tore into a chicken leg while he unloaded plate after plate of food with his free hand, monopolizing the meal. Daniel Lindsay returned to his machine, as if he planned on working.

      “I made food enough for all of us,” she said. “Please, come eat.”

      He gathered both sets of reins and settled the thick leather straps between his wide fingers. “I don’t stop until dark.”

      “But you need to keep your strength up.”

      “I need to get as much done as I can. A storm’s coming.”

      “What storm?” There was hardly a cloud in the sky. A wisp of white at the rolling edge of the horizon cut through the low sun like a razor blade. “I don’t see any thunderheads.”

      “I smell ’em. It may blow over. It may not. Either way, I won’t sit on my arse when there’s work to be done.”

      “I could make you a sandwich—”

      “No.” He snapped the reins, calling out to the horses.

      The teams pulled forward, lunging against their heavy leather collars. The machine groaned to a start, blades clacking.

      “Then tell me how I can help.”

      “You can go in the house where you belong.” Daniel didn’t expect her to understand. “You’ll be happier there.”

      “I’m not afraid of a little farm work.”

      “Then let me see your hands.” He slackened the reins and the horses halted. What was she going to do? Work in the fields like a man? She was a beautiful woman, not rough and made for hard work.

      No, Rayna Ludgrin was creamy flawless skin and china-doll fragile. He reckoned he could span her waist with his hands. “You’re wearing gloves, so I can’t see the bandages.”

      “That’s the idea.”

      “You need to take care of that.”

      “You need to stop and eat, but you’re not.” Pride drew her up straight. She was steel, too. “I don’t see any storm clouds, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. The least I can do is help you. We will get more work done together.”

      “You have to be tired.”

      “I’ve been tired before.”

      “But it’s demanding work—”

      “I don’t have time to argue with the likes of you, Mr. Lindsay. While I appreciate what you’re doing, I won’t be more beholden to you than I have to be.”

      I’ll be darned. He had to admire her gumption. “Keep the wagon slow and steady. Too fast, and the grain hits the ground.”

      She hitched up her skirts to climb aboard the wagon. She looked out of place with the rough leather gloves, which had to have been Kol’s, engulfing her hands. She sat daintily on the bench seat, as if taking tea.

      She made him feel big and awkward. He was aware of his too large hands and feet. He was a rough man, he knew it. Growing up the way he had, he couldn’t be anything else. He wouldn’t be ashamed of it.

      “Sure you can handle these big boys?”

      “I know how to drive.” She held out her gloved hands, asking for the reins.

      He knew plenty of men who couldn’t handle draft horses. He’d keep an eye on her while he worked; he wouldn’t want her to get hurt, that was all. He held out the reins and her hands gripped the thick straps ahead of his. Her touch tapped like a heartbeat through the lines.

      Odd, how he felt a jolt deep inside.

      Pay attention to the horses, Daniel. He didn’t like the way the big sorrels were testing the bit, rolling it around in their mouths. They were aware of the change in drivers.

      “Keep a short rein on them. No, look.” He toed up on the foot rail and reached across her arms, catching the sweet scent of spring lilacs on her skin. “Like this. Not like you’re used to driving the buggy. Hold the reins two-handed, between your fingers for better control. Tight with no slack. Keep tension in the lines.”

      She followed his example, moving those gentle hands of hers and leaning forward so the starched brim of her sunbonnet brushed the outside curve of his jaw.

      He jerked away, releasing the reins. His chest was pounding. He was nervous about her safety, nothing more.

      “More tension,” he told her. “You should feel the strain in your forearms.”

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