filled in the hole and tamped it down good around the wood post. Without new wire, he couldn’t do better, but it would hold for now. As he climbed to his feet, he couldn’t help but hear angry voices coming from the weather-beaten shanty.
Lived with her relatives, did she? He felt sorry for her as he carried the shovel to the barn and stowed it in the same dirty corner where he’d found it. He knew something about families and anger.
Not that he had much family to call his own anymore. Aside from his little girl, his parents were buried and his brothers and sisters were spread across the West like seeds on the wind. Considering the house he’d grown up in and the marriage he’d had, being alone wasn’t so bad.
The horse shied as he came near.
“Easy girl, I’m not the one who’s angry.” Gage patted the mare’s warm neck. “I told you, you’re safe with me.”
The horse’s ears swiveled. Her skin twitched nervously and not even his touch could soothe her.
Gage’s gaze followed the sounds of anger. In a glance he noticed the shanty’s front steps were loose and the porch boards uneven. The screen door sagged on tired hinges. Before he could decide to step up to the house to try to intercede, the shrill woman’s voice faded into silence.
Troubled, he waited. He could hear a faint humming from inside the chicken coop and soon, there she was, breezing down the ramp, swinging her basket of well-packed eggs. Her worn gray dress swirled around her ankles like music.
Spotting him, she wove around the chickens and through the small gate. “I see you kept your end of the bargain.”
“It’s the best I can do without new wire.” Gage shrugged, snapping clods of dirt from the crumpled garment he’d rescued from the earth. “Here’s your apron. I guess it’s your turn to help me out.”
“With the directions. I had better take a look at the repair you did to the fence. If it isn’t good enough, I just may give you bad directions.”
“I expect good directions as I did a remarkable job.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. Couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but this little slip of a woman made his burdens seem to disappear, if only for a moment.
She knelt to inspect his work, a small smile on her soft lips as if she were holding back more laughter. As if she were taking pleasure in teasing him.
“All right. I guess that will do. It’s the Buchanan land you’re looking for?”
“That’s right, ma’am. I’m expected to arrive this morning. I gave my word.”
“A man of his word, are you? I thought those didn’t exist anymore.” She swept close to snatch the balled-up apron.
For an instant she was near enough for him to see the soft threads of gold in her hair. To smell the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of wood smoke, crisp and clean. She’d lit the morning cooking fire, he’d wager, noticing her delicate hands chapped red from hard work. He felt sorry for her, living in that anger-filled house.
She shook the dirt from her apron in a smooth snap, breaking through his thoughts and calling his attention back to watch her fold the length of calico over her lean forearm.
“You’ll want to head back the way you came,” she said in that gentle way of hers. “Stay left at the first fork you come to in the road. Buchanan’s place is about the fifth ranch you come to. Keep our barn in your sight, and you’ll be fine.”
“I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”
“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel too old. I’m not stoop-shouldered yet.”
Old? She looked young—not too young—and easy to look at as she shaded her eyes with one hand. “My name is Sarah Redding.”
He tipped his hat. “Well, Miss Sarah Redding, I’ll round up your chickens and be on my way.”
Sarah couldn’t help the pull of disappointment in her chest. “Miss,” he’d called her. It was a common enough mistake, she supposed, thinking of the several bachelors and widowers who’d been by to call when she’d first arrived at Aunt Pearl’s house last spring.
As soon they’d learned she was not as young as they figured and she had a daughter, they nearly tripped over their feet to leave in a hurry and never returned. And if it hurt, she wasn’t about to admit it or to expect that this man, as appealing as he may seem, would be any different.
And if that were true, she didn’t want him gathering up her aunt’s escaped chickens. “I can catch the hens on my own,” she called after him. “They’re my responsibility and besides, didn’t you give your word? You have places to be.”
“It won’t take more than a few minutes to help.”
“Go on, cowboy. It’s my work to do.”
A chicken squawked, flapping to keep out of his reach. He hesitated, straightening to figure out the best thing to do. Didn’t seem right to leave her like this, but she looked determined to be rid of him. Maybe she was one of those independent types, never settling for a husband and marriage.
Or maybe it was him she didn’t want hanging around for too long.
“I’ll be on my way, if that’s what you want, ma’am.” He gathered his mare’s reins, taking comfort in the familiar feel of worn leather against his skin. Something made him hesitate, maybe because she was the most decent woman he’d come across in some time.
Maybe he had no right taking an interest, but it didn’t stop him. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you living with relatives? A pretty lady like you ought to be married.”
“The truth is, I haven’t found the right man. Only inferior ones wind up traveling down my road.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him—not coy or enticing, but gentle and honest. She tilted her head to one side, scattering the gold wisps that had escaped her braid.
And revealing a small white downy feather stuck in the hair above her left ear. The breeze lifted and made it flutter. “Good luck to you, cowboy. I appreciate your help.”
“My pleasure, miss.” He tipped his hat and mounted. The creak of the saddle was the only sound between them and he waited, trying to think of something more to say.
But the truth was, he’d never had much desire to charm the ladies. He was more practiced in keeping his distance from them, not in figuring out how to talk with them. When was the last time he’d been interesting in keeping up a conversation with a woman?
He couldn’t rightly say. Just as he couldn’t rightly explain why his heart ached with her sweetness as the breeze ruffled her skirt and the wisps of hair that escaped from her braids.
He liked the sight of her, faded dress and all.
“By the way, you missed a feather.” He said it kindly as he nudged the mare with his knees and guided the animal with an expert’s ease. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
“What?”
