by Jillian Hart
Linnea Didn’t Dare Dream Of Her Future
Though she happily cared for her elderly mother, she secretly yearned for more. But no man, especially not one as fine as Seth Gatlin, could ever love a woman with a life as tainted as her own…!
Seth’s Heart Was Heavy With The Past
Still, he busied himself with helping his stepsister and her son, but he ached with emptiness— until he shocked the townspeople by courting Linnea Holmstrom. Though they whispered about her behind her back, she possessed a grace and courage that drew him to her—and broke the leaden prison around his heart…!
“You are the darnedest woman, Linnea Holmstrom.”
He sounded angry; he sounded amused. “Is there a chance now that you’ll invite me in for a cup of tea or something?”
“Not a chance on this earth.” She left him standing in the yard, bathed in moonlight, looking as confused as she felt.
She’d been mean to him. It weighed on her conscience as she bolted the front door. Maybe that would stop him from coming back to the door and knocking. Trying to get the kiss she’d denied him tonight.
But she sat at the window and peered through the night shadows. She spotted him against the dark night. He walked home, his head bowed, his hat in his hands.
She’d hurt him. When she’d only meant to keep a proper distance between them. She’d done the right thing, but it didn’t feel that way. Not one bit…
Jillian Hart grew up in rural Washington State, where she learned how to climb trees, build tree houses and ride ponies. A perfect childhood for a historical romance author. She left home and went to college and has lived in cities ever since. But the warm memories from her childhood still linger in her heart—memories she incorporates into her stories. When Jillian is not hard at work on her next novel, she enjoys reading, flower gardening, hiking with her husband, and trying to train her wiggly cocker spaniel to sit. And failing.
Recent titles by the same author:
LAST CHANCE BRIDE
COOPER’S WIFE
MALCOLM’S HONOUR
MONTANA MAN
BLUEBONNET
BRIDE
Jillian Hart
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Montana Territory, 1888
“Dotter, is that you?”
“Yes, Mama, I’m here.” Linnea crossed through the dim splash of light from the crystal lamp, the tap of her shoes on the bare wood echoing in the dark corners of the room. “I thought you’d be fast asleep by now.”
“Much troubles an old woman’s dreams.” Her mother stirred against her pillows, her sightless eyes fixed upon the ceiling overhead. “Come, tell me why you are not climbing in beside me.”
“I’ll be there soon enough.”
“What? You are not ready for bed? You work too hard, my child.”
“Mama, I do not work hard enough.” Linnea knelt, and the handle of the trundle bed still tucked safely away nudged her in the knee. “Are you thirsty? Can I fetch you a glass of water?”
“No. I am only lonely on this cold winter’s night.”
Linnea brushed her hand across her mother’s cool fingers. “Let me fetch another quilt.”
“You should be taking care of your own husband and family instead of fussing after me.”
Linnea’s step faltered. An ache, so sharp it stole her breath, twisted in her chest. The brief images snapped to life, images of a little girl playing with toys before a crackling fire—only dreams. Only dreams a spinster like her had no right to cling to.
She tugged down the bundle of soft flannel and laid the warm log-cabin quilt gently over her mother’s frail form. “This will keep you toasty.”
“You’re a good girl, Linnea.” Bony fingers caught hers and squeezed with a lifetime of love.
“Not so good, Mama.” She stepped away, her chest tight, and drew the door closed behind her.
The empty shanty echoed with each rustle of her skirts and sound of her shoe against the wood floor. Linnea closed her father’s book and laid it on the small table next to her rocking chair.
Maybe it was the way the wind whispered at the eaves and the dying fire snapped and popped in protest, but tonight the cozy room felt forlorn and so very empty. She grabbed her wool shawl from the peg and slipped out the front door.
Frigid night air struck her face, icy and sharp, and knifed through her layers of flannel and wool. She dashed down the steps, shivering. Ice cracked beneath her shoes and frozen snow crunched, shattering the night’s stillness.
The Montana high prairie lay wrapped in silence and the deepest shadows. No dusting of starlight sheened on the miles of black snow. Thick clouds gathered overhead, hiding the proud white moon, signaling a coming storm.
Yes, the air smelled like snow. Would it be enough to keep her from her trip to town in the morning? She’d looked forward to going all week. Maybe, maybe, the storm would hold off.
She’d been alone on the homestead for a fortnight now, with only her mother’s company. Best not to wish for too much, Linnea. Unlike the stars hiding behind the clouds this night, wishes had a way of falling to the ground, broken and spent.
Frigid air burned in her chest as she knelt before the woodpile. Behind her, the slim crack of light from inside the shanty cast diffuse shadows, not enough to light her way. She stacked the wood in her left arm by feel. The split pine was rough against her fingers and a sliver bit into the pad of her thumb. The loneliness of the night enveloped her. The wind whipped with a keen sorrow, and there were no other sounds on the vast prairie that stretched unseen but not unfelt.
She straightened, taking her time, even though the cold breeze knifed through her clothes, chilling her from skin to bone. There was a beauty to the solitude, a reverence in the night. She breathed it in, glad for this private time before duty beckoned her once more.
Her teeth chattered and she turned toward the light and warmth of the house. The snow crunched beneath her shoes. Her toes had cleared the first ice-crusted porch step when she heard a faint drum on the horizon. Like thunder, it grew in volume as it approached, echoing sharply across the endless plains.
Was it them? It had to be. Linnea bent to let the bundle of wood roll from her arms to the swept-clean porch floor. She turned, heart hammering, running across the slick, frosted surface of the snow as fast as she dared.
The barn loomed like a great hulking beast in the night, and she dashed around the straw stacks, great humps covered with shadowed snow. She turned toward the east holding her breath. There was no sign of them, but they had to be close—she could hear them.
The night kept the wild horses cloaked, shrouded like a secret on this solemn midnight hour. The rumble of unshod hooves on the hard prairie reverberated with an off-rhythm music that lured her north, toward the darkest edge of the horizon where not even shadows lurked.
There they are. Like phantoms, they ran across the face of the night, dark manes and tails snapping behind them. Like unearthly creatures, they wheeled as a group, fluid as shadow, and thundered straight toward her.
Untamed power and grace, they sailed over the fence rails and ran again, like thunder and storm, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Then the stallion lifted
his head high and trumpeted, and the herd of mares skidded to a halt.
The only sound Linnea could hear was her heart knocking in her ears. She stood trembling, spellbound, the cold and fatigue forgotten. The wild mustangs pawed through the thick mantle of frozen snow to the dry hay beneath.
She’d worked hard last summer to cut that hay, but her outrage was nothing compared to the privilege of watching them. Such beauty. What would it feel like to run free like that? As fast as you could across the untamed prairie?
The stallion lifted his head, magnificent as he scented the wind. Then he whinnied and the mares headed off across the barren fields. Immense, graceful, mesmerizing, the wild horses galloped closer.
Why, they hardly touched the ground. It stole her breath just watching as the mares soared by, a parade of raw power just barely earthbound. The stallion followed, ears pinned back and nostrils flaring, muscles and tendons straining.
The majestic sight left her breathless. She watched them fade back into the veil of darkness, becoming part of the night once more. Their thundering hooves grew faint until there was only the suggestion of it. She turned, straining her eyes and ears, but there was only silence.
And the whoof of surprise as a horse snorted behind her, steeled shoes sidestepping rapidly on the snow’s frozen surface.
“Whoa, there,” a molasses-smooth male voice rumbled, both soothing and powerful. “Ma’am, are you aware this is a road?”
She whirled out of the way, suddenly realizing how foolish she seemed, staring after a dream, a grown woman like her. No, not just a grown woman, but a spinster and no green, daydreaming girl.
She bowed her head, keeping to the shadows. “I’m sorry I startled your horse.”
“Were you watching them?”
“The mustangs?” She took a step closer to the barn. She shouldn’t be out alone in the night talking to a complete stranger. “Why, yes—”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I’ve been following them all the way from the river. Been as close to them as a quarter mile. Takes my breath away just looking at them.”
His voice was rich and as smooth as a fine velveteen ribbon, fluid and graceful in a masculine way. A flicker of alarm twisted through her, and she stepped closer to the house. No matter how wonderful his voice, this man was a stranger, and she was alone with him and unprotected.
The beauty of the dreaming gone, the horses lost to her in the night and the vast Montana prairie, she turned, hurrying toward the house.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me. Some say I’m harmless enough.” Warmth laced his voice, and she couldn’t help turning.
It was too dark to see anything but the faintest outline of a solid man. His shoulders were wide and his arms relaxed, the tip of his hat was high and proud, his profile ruggedly cut.
“I don’t mean to be rude.” She stopped in the middle of the yard, instead of scurrying for the house. Iron County was a safe, neighborly place, but it wasn’t immune to trouble. “I have to go—”
“The wild horses. Do they come here often?”
He asked the one question she could not turn her back on. She lingered in the shadows, safe enough for a few more words, and then she would leave. “They feed on the hay and grain left for the cattle. They’re regular visitors this time of year.”
“I’d wager the local ranchers don’t take kindly to that.”
“No, they don’t. But I don’t mind. They’re so grand I can’t seem to summon up enough fury to chase them off.”
“You love horses, then.”
“I know little about them. I just know there’s a majesty when they’re racing across the horizon.” Just like she wanted to do.
Heart yearning, she turned away, embarrassment gathering like shadows inside her. Who was she to have secret longings? Secret dreams? She’d wasted them once and had no right to more.
She headed toward the house before she could regret talking to a strange man in the road.
“That’s how I feel, too.” His words called her back, so genuine and sincere she nearly missed a step.
The man on the horse couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see she was nothing but ordinary, nothing but a plain woman with lines on her face and spent dreams. He probably thought he was talking with someone younger, which was why he lingered in the frigid shadows.
“Good night.” She spoke the words so there would be no more conversation. No more quiet inquiries to lure her from the shadows.
Besides, she had wood to stack, the ashes to bank and water to draw for the morning’s work. Inside, Mama waited, sleepless and alone.
Linnea retreated to the porch, where light poured in a slim line across the jumble of spilled wood. She knelt and filled her arms, working quickly, hearing the slow step of steeled horseshoes on the iced snow, then silence. Leather creaked. Was he watching her?
She peeked over her shoulder and her heart tumbled. Yes, he watched, straight and strong in his saddle, his hat at a dignified tilt, his presence more substantial than shadow.
The foolish part of her, the part that would not quit dreaming, wondered what he would look like by day. Would he have black hair or brown? Blue eyes or hazel? Would his complexion be fair or bronzed?
But the sensible part of her, the one ruled by duty, did not wonder and did not wish. She reached for the last stick of wood and stood, skirts rustling, and hurried into the house.
When she shut the door and barred it tight, her heart was still beating, still thundering in her ears. Out of breath and trembling, she leaned against the stout wood walls and couldn’t shake the feeling he was still watching and waiting.
She pulled back the edge of the curtain. The shadowed man and horse remained motionless in the middle of the road. She let the curtain fall and did not dream. Not even in the loneliest hour of the night as she banked the embers, each movement echoing in the empty rooms.
Not even when she finally lay down to sleep in the narrow trundle bed, tucked beneath the quilt she’d made long ago, stitched with love and a young woman’s hope.
She closed her eyes and slept, and not even then did she dream.
* * *
Seth Gatlin gritted his teeth against the ache in his legs and back from riding all day and half the night in the bitter cold and stumbled up the porch steps.
His stepsister’s house was in sad need of attention. He could tell this even in the dark. The eaves beneath the door were damaged, as if the roof had been leaking over time. The porch boards sagged beneath his weight.
The house was dark and quiet. The boy would be asleep. He lifted his hand and debated knocking.
As if in answer to his uncertainty, the door creaked open, the hinges in desperate need of oil.
“Ginny?” he asked. “Is that you standing in the dark?”
“I was listening for your horse in the driveway.” She eased back into the shadows of a room, faintly lit by a new fire. Bright flames crackled greedily in the grate on the wall behind her. “I figured you’d be frozen clear through, what with that wind out there. I put some stew on to warm. Come, sit by the fire.”
“You don’t need to wait on me.” He tried to keep the bristle from his voice as he stepped inside and shut the door.
“I don’t mind. You came all the way from Fort Benton in this cold, just to help me.” Her fingers brushed his jacket’s collar as she tried to help him out of his coat.
Surprised, he let her take the garment, and she hung it with care by the mantel. His chest tightened with the gesture. Their family had been a fractured one, chaotic and filled with hurt. He’d taken off the first chance he had and never looked back. Maybe he’d been wrong not to keep better track of his stepsisters.
“Here, this is the warmest chair in the house. I know it isn’t much. I miss the house I had in town.” Ginny placed her hands on the back of an upholstered overstuffed chair next to the hearth. “You sit here and I’ll bring your plate. Do you take coffee or tea?”
“I don’t mind fixing
my own.”
“Nonsense. Sit right down there by the fire and let me make myself useful.” Ginny’s gaze met his and he saw the grief there and the shadows.
She looked like a ghost with hollowed eyes and gaunt cheeks sunken in beneath prominent cheekbones. Sadness made her once-beautiful face haggard, and worry had drawn lines around her once always-smiling mouth.
Stunned to see her this way, he didn’t argue as she scurried away, her movements nothing more than a whisper in the dark recesses of the kitchen.
What had happened to her? She’d written only of her son in her obligatory Christmas letters and of the home she kept in town. He’d thought little of it—they’d never been close, and even that much contact, a yearly letter, was more than he received from his other stepsisters.
He thought of his mother, browbeaten and broken by a man—Ginny’s father—who’d vowed to cherish her, and anger gathered like a hard fist in his abdomen.
“Here you are.” Ginny swept back into the room, a tray prepared with everything he might need—flatware, honey, butter and jam, thick slices of fragrant bread and a big bowl of steaming stew. “I just put the coffee on. It should be ready in a moment.”
She looked nervous, and he hated that. “I told you, you don’t need to wait on me. Sit down and help me eat some of this bread. I swear, I haven’t seen such good-looking food in a long time.”
Not since he’d had his own home and a wife to cook for him.
“I’m a passable cook.” Ginny slipped onto the edge of the horsehair sofa, biting her bottom lip anxiously. “Do you like the stew?”
“It’s good and tasty.” It was, but it troubled him she would worry about pleasing him. “We’re family, Ginny, even though we’re strangers. I gave you my word I would help you, and I mean it. I’m not going to change my mind if I don’t like your cooking.”
“Thank you.” She breathed the words, her relief bright in the dark room.
“Who lives down the way from you? The little ranch with the barn by the road?”
“Oh, the Holmstroms.” Her voice became tight. “It’s just the old woman and her daughter now. They’re good enough tenants, quiet, keep to themselves. Although I’m not happy having them for neighbors.”
