dove at her. Feathers flew everywhere, choking the air.
“Hello? Miss?” a man’s voice called from outside the henhouse. “Thought you should know there’s a hole in the fence. Your birds are out.”
That wasn’t Uncle Milt’s voice. Then who could it be? Surely not one of the neighbors.
She remembered the dark rider she’d spotted on the horizon’s edge, and she plucked a feather from her hair. No. It can’t be him.
She peered through the small door. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the mounted man in her uncle’s yard. With his black hat tipped low over his face, she could only see the cut of his square jaw, dark with several days’ growth. His mouth was an unrelenting line that did not flicker.
The dark rider stood in the yard, so handsome she could not breathe. She brushed a feather from her patched apron before stepping into the sunlight. “Thank you for mentioning it. Goodness, the hens are everywhere.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his Stetson. He looked like man and might, like a legend on horseback, as he stared at her without saying more.
She’d never been so aware of the dress she wore, thin and faded from wear. Her fingers found another feather in her hair and she tugged it free. “We had a hungry coyote last night.”
“There are tracks. Two sets of them.” His voice was magnificent, too, as he gestured toward the hole in the fence.
Here she was, standing before a dream, and what was she wearing? The ugliest dress in the county. It was clear he was not about to be carried away by the sight of her.
Well, life never promised to be fair or love easy to find.
She brushed at the straw clinging to her hem and knelt in front of the fence.
“Need help?”
“No.”
Leather creaked as the stranger dismounted. He was as tall as he looked. He approached with a slow confident gait, strolling right past her as if she wasn’t there.
Her skin tingled at his nearness. A zing of sensation skipped down her spine, making her aware of this man, so strong and silent. Far too aware. Her blood felt warm in her veins, and she stared intently at the hole in the earth. Could he guess that she was attracted to him?
“I don’t suppose this is the Buchanan spread?”
“No.”
“That’s the way my luck’s been running lately.” He tipped his black hat lower over his eyes. “I’ll need a shovel.”
“A shovel? Oh, I can’t let you fix this.” The sooner he rode away, the faster her reaction to him would fade. She took off her apron and stuffed it into the small hole. “There, this will do for now.”
“Don’t want my help?”
“I don’t know you, sir.”
“Last name’s Gatlin.” His hard mouth softened into a small grin at the corners. “My friends call me Gage. You look alone here. Is this your place?”
“No, this is my aunt’s husband’s farm. She’s busy in the house, and Uncle Milt is out early in the fields.”
She climbed to her feet only to realize there was a dirt stain across the front of her bodice from preparing the garden spot yesterday. She looked like the poor relation she was.
Well, nothing could be done about it now. “What are you doing riding this way, Mr. Gatlin?”
“Looking for my next job.”
She spotted a stray chicken and dashed after it. Mr. Gatlin’s fine-blooded mare snorted in surprise as she whisked past. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah noticed the polished leather of the quality saddle, and the expensive rifle cover strapped beneath the right stirrup. “Your next job? You don’t look like a drifter.”
“And you look like you need some help.” The grin in the corners of his mouth widened a little more as he stood, all power and masculinity.
Making her feel small and plain.
She scooped a hen from the grass at the roadside. When she turned around, he was gone. So, he thought he’d help her, would he? Judging by the quality of his horse and saddle, he didn’t need to trade work for a meal.
So what did he want? Or was he merely being a gentleman? She marched past his horse and deposited the hen in the coop, not sure what to do if Mr. Gatlin was only being kind. She hadn’t been around a kind man in so long—since her husband died—that she’d almost forgotten they truly existed.
By the time she’d caught her third escaped chicken, Gage Gatlin ambled out of the barn carrying a battered shovel.
“Might as well make myself useful. I’m rusty at helping maidens in distress, but I’ll get better with practice.”
“You’re out of practice at shoveling? Or helping a woman?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Why’s that?” She held the squawking chicken against her chest with one hand as she reached for the door latch. “Is there a wife you’re running away from?”
He was at her side in an instant, radiating heat and strength as he opened the door for her. “There’s no wife.”
“I see.” She brushed past him to release the bird.
He nodded toward the south, where the rolling prairie stretched endlessly. “I’m looking for a fellow who’s got a place not far from here. I thought this was the place, but I must have taken the wrong road.”
“You did.” She brushed dirt and chicken feathers from her worn skirt. “I happen to know where that ranch is.”
“Is that so? Then maybe we can make a deal.”
“Why did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because I’m bound and determined to help you out, ma’am.”
“Fine. You fix my chicken fence and I’ll give you the best directions you’ve ever had. Is that what you want?”
“I say it’s a satisfactory deal. I’d best get to work.”
“I have eggs to gather.” She grabbed a basket and hurried through the little chicken yard toward the snug henhouse. Her skirts rustled with her gait, her long braids snapping.
Gage watched her go. She moved like May across the prairie, light and easy on the eyes. And because she wasn’t wearing a petticoat beneath that threadbare dress, he could make out the shape of her legs as she ran. Long, lean, but not skinny. And her hair, as bright as gold, made him glad to be a man. It trailed down her back as rich as sunlight.
There were times he missed having a woman to pull close. Especially a woman like this one.
She disappeared into the coop, and it was
