Crossing, Montana January 1890
Rose Bell pushed back a scream of frustration. Even so, she spoke with more anger than sorrow. “The poor creatures. Pa, let me off here. You take Ma to the house and I’ll take care of these animals.” The sheep had been turned out of their pen and one of the older ewes was mired in a snowbank next to the shed. The others milled around, uncertain as to whether they should enjoy their freedom or panic because there were no fences to keep them safe.
At least they wouldn’t drown in the river today. It was frozen over. That was a mercy.
She hopped down before the wagon stopped moving and raced toward the ewe. “Come on, girl.” She pulled and tugged and cooed but the sheep had been there long enough her wool had frozen to the snow, anchoring her firmly.
“Can I help?”
With a startled squeak she turned around to stare at Douglas Caldwell, the golden-haired son and heir of the Caldwell family.
Everyone else called him by his nickname, “Duke,” but she couldn’t bring herself to. It sounded friendly and neighborly and the Caldwells were anything but that. Pa had bought this bit of land eight years ago and turned it into a productive farm. But it happened to encroach on the boundaries of the Caldwell Ranch. They learned later that the filing clerk had made a mistake. Despite that, the land belonged to the Bells—clear and legal.
To this day Mr. Caldwell refused to accept the facts. He had tried every means he could think of to get them to leave. He’d offered money. He’d talked; at first kindly then threateningly. When none of that worked he’d had his cowboys harass the Bells and their animals. The garden had been trampled a number of times. Caldwell cows had eaten or destroyed portions of the oat crop. Just a few months ago, one of the lambs had drowned when the animals had mysteriously escaped their pasture and found their way to the river. But the worst thing they’d done to date was stampede the cows through the yard as the Bells harvested the garden. Pa had been injured. He still had sore ribs. She knew by the way he moved and the number of naps he took that he felt poorly.
The cowboys always managed to make their activities look like accidents, so the sheriff couldn’t do anything.
It was on the tip of Rose’s tongue to tell young Mr. Caldwell she didn’t need his help but he’d already dismounted and come to her side. “It’s going to take a good pull to get her out of that.”
“I know.”
He grinned down at her. “Hello, Rose. How have you been?”
She pushed her hair back under her knit hat.
His gaze followed the movement of her hands. She half expected him to say something about her red hair as he’d done when they were in early grades at school. Instead his blue eyes darkened and he swallowed hard.
As if he liked what he saw.
She pressed her lips tight. The cold must be affecting her brain. Except she wasn’t cold. She’d worked up plenty of heat struggling with the ewe.
Surely she only imagined his look. She stole a glance at him. He still looked at what little of her hair showed from beneath her hat. He still had a bemused look about him.
Remembering his question, she said, “I’ve been just fine, Mr. Caldwell. Did Philadelphia survive your visit?”
He’d been gone a year, visiting his grandparents, and had returned a couple of weeks ago. In time to spend Christmas with his family.
“Philadelphia won’t even notice I’ve left.”
Odd way to put it. She hadn’t given it much mind but if she had, she would have expected him to sound regretful at having to leave the city. No, she hadn’t given it much mind, she silently mocked herself. Only thought of it maybe once or twice a day. She’d half expected to see him every time she went to town and every Sunday at church and even when she was out riding. That’s what happened when two people grew up in the same community. You got accustomed to seeing each other even if you weren’t on friendly terms.
The young man who seemed to be his new sidekick hurried over to the ewe and fell to his knees at her side. “You poor thing.” He wrapped his arms around her neck.
“Billy, this is our neighbor, Rose Bell.” Duke spoke softly, which brought Rose’s attention back to him so fast her neck creaked. She preferred to think of Duke as brash. Hearing him speak so gently, so tenderly—
Good grief, she was losing her mind.
“Rose, this is Billy Taylor.”
Billy got to his feet. “Hi, Rose. Pretty name. Just like your hair.” Billy stared at her hair.
Rose resisted an urge to push it more tightly under her hat. She felt again Duke’s study and forced herself to look directly at the young man he’d introduced. “Nice meeting you, Billy.”
Billy’s grin was wide and eager. He pressed a hand to his mouth and looked embarrassed.
It was hard to gauge his age but she guessed him to be in his early twenties. He didn’t seem the kind of companion she’d expect Duke to pick. But then, what sort did she expect?
She couldn’t rightly say. She’d done her best to avoid Duke all her life—partly because he teased her about her red hair but even more because he was a Caldwell. It had proved difficult to ignore him. They’d attended the same school. He was only a year older so they’d often ended up working together on some project. They’d gone to the same church. They’d even gone to the same gatherings where he’d often managed to become her partner at games.
Mostly, she assured herself, to annoy her and to tease her about her red hair.
Duke stepped into the deep snow beside the ewe. “What do you think, Billy? How are we going to get her out of this?” The ewe bleated at his arrival.
“You won’t hurt her, will ya?” Billy’s face wrinkled with concern. She realized he had the mind of a child, which confused her even more.
“Not if I can help it.” Duke tried to lift the edges of the ewe’s fleece. “She’s froze in.” He stood to his knees in snow, tipped his hat back and scratched his forehead. “I don’t know anything about sheep. Can we pull her out?” He turned to Rose.
She realized she’d been staring at him and jerked her attention back to the sheep. What was wrong with her? She sucked in a steadying breath. The same thing that had been wrong with her the year before he’d left. She’d struggled with reconciling the teasing boy he’d been with the handsome young man he had turned into. He was even more handsome now. His blue eyes drilled into her thoughts and sent them skittering back and forth like the sheep around her. Some running, glad to be free, but then stopping, uncertain what they wanted to do with that freedom.
Now she was thinking like a stupid sheep. She closed the door to such foolishness. She, Rose Bell, age eighteen, was a levelheaded, practical sort of person. One who dealt calmly with challenges.
She moved closer to the ewe, which brought her closer to Duke. She stumbled in the deep snow and he caught her by the arm.
“Steady there.” His voice deepened.
Her cheeks burned and
