Bluebonnet Bride

by Jillian Hart

  A cold breeze tore through the kitchen, and Seth saw Linnea in the open back doorway. The drop of her soft mouth and the open pain in her luminous eyes made his heart catch. He saw the wood she carried and he stood to take the burden from her.

  But she saw what he intended and moved fast, shutting the door with her foot and barreling across the kitchen to the small cookstove at her mother’s side. “Mama, I’ll not have that man spoken of in this house.”

  “His name was not said.”

  Seth measured the sadness marking the old woman’s face and the raw pain in the daughter’s. He didn’t know how their homesteaded land had come to be in his sister’s possession, but he saw it was still a hard subject, full of pain. “I didn’t come here to cause hurt feelings.”

  “No, of course not.” Linnea stood, arms free of her burden, and bustled toward the back door, loosening her cloak’s sash. “I see you brought the shirts.”

  “Just like I said.” The package felt awkward now, and he set it on the edge of a small table, on top of a delicate lace cloth.

  He looked up and Linnea’s presence struck him hard like a blow to the abdomen. Hers was a quiet gentle beauty that didn’t grab a man at first glance, but it grabbed him now. He froze, struggling for breath, and hoped no one noticed. He couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs.

  “Let me take a look at those shirts.” Linnea breezed close, demure and shy.

  Her fragrance of winter wind and lilacs made his heart kick. He couldn’t help noticing the threads of gold that shone in her blond hair. Couldn’t help listening to her rustling skirts, a thoroughly female sound that put him on edge.

  She opened the package and shook out a blue muslin shirt. His skin prickled as she circled behind him, and the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. He felt the heat of her touch at each point of his shoulder seams where she held the shirt up to his.

  “I can let out the seams here, and it should be roomy to work in.” She sounded practical, sensible, like a woman comfortable with her singleness, like a woman not looking for a man.

  And that knowledge helped him relax. The air whooshed from his lungs and he could breathe again. His skin stopped tingling. “The sleeves seem short.”

  “I can take care of that, too.” She stepped away, eyes down, graceful and reserved and so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Her complexion was as smooth as cream, her nose slim and delicate cheekbones high. It was a wonder she hadn’t married.

  But when Mrs. Holmstrom carried the pie plate to the table, counting the steps from the counter, he knew the reason why.

  “Mama, let me help you. Goodness.” Linnea set down his shirt and rushed to her mother’s side.

  “I am not too frail to serve a handsome guest a slice of my blueberry-preserve pie.” The old woman seemed undaunted by her handicap and flashed a smile that made her hidden beauty shine. “Come, Major, sit and enjoy. Maybe there is a chance I can charm you into fixing the leak near the chimney.”

  “Cut me two slices of that blueberry pie and we’ve got a deal.”

  He approached the table, and Linnea nearly dropped the plates at the sight of him. He stalked toward her with an easy strength that left her stunned. Behind him, the windowpanes caught the playful rays of the sun, glinting and reflecting, casting light to halo him and burnish the breadth of his powerful shoulders.

  He was so effortlessly masculine, she could not look away. He was like no man she’d ever met, broad and stalwart but not brash. Just looking at him made her heart kick and, feeling overwhelmed, Linnea broke away, using the excuse to fetch more water.

  Mama, who knew there were two fresh bucketfuls, said nothing as she excused herself. Linnea grabbed her cloak and unlatched the door, hurrying out of his sight before she made a complete fool of herself.

  Stabbing her arms through her cloak sleeves, she shut the door behind her. She tripped down the steps and sank ankle deep in the snow. The quietness of the landscape was gently welcoming and chased away the embarrassing mix of attraction and loneliness aching like a wound in her chest.

  He isn’t interested in you, Linnea. She’d spent ten long years with a shame so great on her shoulders no decent man would so much as speak to her.

  Dreams. She felt that part of her heart ache and yearn. Made her wonder what it would feel like to be loved by a man like Major Seth Gatlin. His affection would be quiet and steady, just like he was. And his smile would be all for her.

  She knelt in the cold snow and hauled the bucket up from deep in the earth. She heard the distant echoing sounds of water splashing as she pulled. Loneliness curled around her like the wind and it felt as vast as the prairie.

  Hoping for love at her age. What was she thinking? And was she so foolish that she would feel this for Ginny McIntyre’s brother? The wife of the man who’d broken every last one of her dreams?

  Her gaze strayed to the far hillside, where two carved crosses marked two graves. Where two crosses marked the losses of a lifetime and more shame than she could endure.

  There would be no love for her, no man with broad shoulders and a quiet smile to ease this lonely yearning from her heart.

  Be sensible, Linnea. Be grateful for all that you have. She was. Truly. She had a wonderful life here with Mama. She woke up to the majestic hush of the morning prairie. She went to bed at night knowing her day had been filled with love.

  She would go back inside, sit down at the table and eat pie with Mother and Major Gatlin, and not once think foolish thoughts, not once wish and yearn and dream.

  He was a neighbor, a gentleman and their landlord. That was all.

  She retrieved her bucket, dropped the rope back down the well and covered it tight. When she stood, a hard gust of wind nearly knocked her to her knees.

  The chinook. It was late, but it had come. The long cold winter was over and the wonder of spring was about to begin.

  Chapter Four

  Seth sank into the carved wooden chair at the head of the table, the one Mrs. Holmstrom offered him.

  He watched as she breezed to the counter and worked easily and quickly, running her fingers along the cupboard shelves until she located the small dessert plates. The chink of china and the ring of flatware knelled in the small room and the sound penetrated through the thick walls around his heart.

  Maybe it was the warmth from the fire. Or the feminine scents of soap and flowers.

  Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Memories long buried tugged at him like a rope at a stubborn mule. He fought but they came all the same. Long-lost flashes of happier times. The faint echo of children’s laughter. The scent of apple crisp fresh from the oven.

  And sunshine. Always sunshine.

  No sense going back there, he told himself as he measured sugar into the steaming china cup Mrs. Holmstrom placed before him. There was nothing but pain for him in the past.

  “Would you like milk to add to your coffee?”

  “I’d appreciate that, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Holmstrom set a small delicate pitcher on the table near his cup.

  The clink of china against lace-covered wood took another chink from the armor around his heart.

  The back door swung open almost behind him. A strong wind breezed through the room. He could feel Linnea’s presence even before he set down the spoon and turned.

  Warm as spring, as welcome as the chinook. He moved without thinking, taking the bucket from her grip. His fingers brushed hers and lingered.

  Her skin might be cool, from the temperature outside, but the feel of a woman never changed. She was like new silk. He felt her intake of breath, revealing her surprise at his bold action, and she tore her hand away.

  Awareness fired through him, and he didn’t move. Her face was gently shaped, and her pearl-pink lips made him wonder if they tasted as soft as they looked. His mouth tingled with a sudden wanting, but he was a wise man and he turned away.

  Slowly, deliberately, he set the bucket on the floor next to the s
tove. Beside another bucket that was perfectly full. Baking and washing dishes could use a lot of water, he told himself. But Linnea blushed and he strongly suspected the real reason she’d fled his presence.

  He was not a man who drew women to his side. He felt much older than his real age and looked it, too. A woman as plainly beautiful as Linnea Holmstrom would have no interest in a man like him. He didn’t blame her.

  Still that knowledge didn’t make it easier to return to his chair. Mrs. Holmstrom’s cheerful conversation and her exquisite pie couldn’t begin to ease away the memories that came unbidden and unwanted. Memories of another kitchen with a woman of silk and beauty, who’d turned a simple shanty into a home with bits of fabric and lace.

  It took all his willpower to answer Mrs. Holmstrom’s genuine questions about his trip from Fort Benton, while her daughter sat wordlessly at her side. He ate quickly, hardly tasting the rich, sweet pie.

  At last, he was able to turn down a third offer for seconds and rise from the table. But the memories lingered like night fog when morning came.

  Feeling cold, Seth thanked the women, grabbed his jacket from the peg by the door and escaped to the restlessness of the high Montana prairie.

  The sweet winds of the chinook had taken the sting from the cold air, and the icicles thick along the house’s eaves dripped with happy music. The cheerful sounds only made him clench his jaw and wish for colder weather.

  Sure, he was grouchy. He was overwarm from sitting in the Holmstroms’ kitchen. His blood felt ready to boil in his veins as he marched across the yard. The past remained an echo and Linnea Holmstrom’s quiet beauty was a clear image in his mind that refused to fade.

  He couldn’t tell if it was the past or the present that troubled him, as much as the knowledge that he could never travel that path again.

  General nickered a welcome as he leaned over the stall door begging for a treat. Seth took a sugar lump from his jacket pocket and let the horse lap the treat from his palm.

  Got a little attracted to her, did you, Gatlin? Yep. It was attraction—and lust. Something he didn’t figure a spinster like Linnea Holmstrom would appreciate.

  The stallion nudged him, an old friend, and eased some of the emptiness away. Seth treated his horse to another sugar lump and then retrieved his hammer from the back of the sleigh.

  It was best to get to work. And to forget the beat of attraction in his blood.

  As Mrs. Holmstrom had promised, he found a wooden ladder at the back of the barn and he leaned it against the house. The old ladder didn’t look trustworthy, but it took his weight when he tested it. A gambling man, Seth started to climb and ignored every groan it made.

  He was grateful when his feet touched solid roof. The world looked different from up here, his troubles further away. The wind whipped across his face, whistling in his ears. The sheen of sunlight on melting snow glittered like strewn diamonds and it hurt to look at them.

  Then, over the peak of the shimmering roof, a movement caught his gaze on the faraway hill. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he squinted into the glare of light.

  Alone, on the distant crest of a low rise, stood a woman in a gray cloak and hood, her skirts lashed by the wind. She stared over the endless plains and looked as lost as he felt.

  Linnea.

  Why he kept looking, he couldn’t say, but the sight of her held him spellbound. He could not tear his gaze away.

  Her colorful skirt ruffles looked like spring flowers cast against the winter white, like spring touching the land. It took all his willpower to turn his attention to the roof in front of him and not stare out at the horizon like a young man searching for a dream.

  When he looked up, she was gone.

  Just concentrate on the roof. That was why he’d come here. Judging by the looks of things, when this snow melted, he would be replacing the entire roof. Taking his hammer, he used the claw to rip away the crumbling shingles on the north side of the chimney. What a mess.

  Ginny wasn’t going to like it. She’d been hardly more than a shadow in her kitchen this morning, worrying over whether or not he was pleased with the meal of fried eggs and salt pork. His conscience stung.

  Somehow he would find a way to take care of his sister. To erase the lines on her face made by time and fear.

  He felt Linnea’s presence before he heard her boots on the snow. Her gaze was a steady warmth on his back and he almost pretended he didn’t know she was there. But he’d never been good at deception and, besides, he needed to fetch some shingles from his sleigh.

  He made his way down the ladder slowly.

  Stiffness tensed his back as he set foot on the slushy ground. “I need to grab my tools and some shingles from the back of my sleigh. Tell your mother I’ll be hammering on her roof for a while.”

  “You intend to raise our rent, don’t you? That’s the real reason you’re here.”

  Linnea was no timid mouse, nor was she a shrew. Her eyes were too old for her face and it troubled him.

  A woman so pretty shouldn’t know heartache. She didn’t have to say the words for him to know what a burden a higher rent would cause. He remembered her slim hands at the table while she picked at her uneaten pie and sipped her coffee. Hands callused from hard work, reddened from the cold winter. Hands that had sewn the dozen shirts he bought today, to support her aged mother.

  “Please tell me the truth. There’s no way for us to pay more.”

  “I said—”

  “I know what you told my mother. But I can see what Ginny wants. What she’s wanted all along. She wants us gone. I’ve paid every increase her family has asked.”

  “I have no intention of raising the rent.”

  “So you say now, but what about later? I can’t do more and take care of my mother at the same time. She can’t be left alone day after day if I take a job in town. And if we move, then she has to leave behind the home my father built for her with his own hands.”

  “I’m here to repair the roof, ma’am. Not to force you out of your rightful home.”

  “Ginny may have other plans.”

  “Not if I have something to say about it.”

  There was no mistaking the integrity in his words and the honor in his voice. Linnea’s worries melted like the snow at her feet.

  “If you’re not going to be raising our rent, then I should help.” She trailed him into the shadows of the barn.

  “You? Hammer? I thought you were a seamstress.”

  “I’ve used a hammer a time or two when the event called for it. Besides, I have no intention of being indebted to you over fixing our roof. Since you’re not going to raise the rent.”

  She’d made her point. “All right, then. You can hand my tools to me. Make things go faster.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Major.”

  “Call me Seth. Just plain Seth.” The wind tangled dark locks across his brow and he didn’t look at her as they crossed the yard together. Treated her like a woman who didn’t make him look twice.

  Seth. She longed to say his name, to feel the word take shape on her tongue and cross her lips. What was wrong with her? The foolish, daydreaming part of her just wouldn’t stop. Even when she knew better.

  “Be careful. This ladder’s old and wobbly.” Seth gazed down at her from the height of the roof. “Your mother would never bake pie for me again if I let you fall.”

  “I won’t fall. I’m not the little girl she sees, and I’m not helpless like some women I know of.” She couldn’t help the small bit of pride that flared to life in her chest.

  Heaven knows she had little to feel good about, and she wasn’t going to be ashamed of it. She’d taken good care of Mama, more than a lot of girls her age could have done.

  He held the top of the ladder steady against the side of the house. Why did she notice how strong his hands were? How attractively made? Stop looking at him, she told herself and started climbing.

  “Why didn’t you tell your mother about the quilt?”
r />   “Why do you think that’s any of your business?”

  “Because I’m your landlord.”

  “Not technically. And that doesn’t qualify you to be nosy.”

  “No, but I am curious.” Seth’s steady gaze felt friendly, like a man she could be safe with. “She doesn’t know you took it to town.”

  “True, and I don’t want her to know in case it doesn’t sell.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  Linnea hesitated, blinking hard against the bright sunlight that surrounded them. It wasn’t as if she could tell Seth the truth. “The dressmaker thinks it will, and I sure hope she’s right. The extra money would be nice, but to actually make my quilts to earn part of our living? What a wonder that would be.”

  “You don’t like making shirts?”

  “I love to sew, but it would be nice to do something different for a change.”

  “How long have you been selling shirts to support your mother?”

  “Ever since I was sixteen.”

  He looked at her with wise eyes, as if he saw far too much. She lowered her chin, struggling against the old shame that weighed her down. “How about you? Are you going back to the army after you help Ginny?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m retired. That part of my life is done for good. I plan to be a rancher. Raise cattle and horses and wheat.”

  Dreams, they erased the lines from Seth’s face and made him look like a man standing at the edge of the world. Big. Bold. And more handsome than she had the right to notice.

  “So you’ll be moving on?”

  “Yes, ma’am. After I help my sister get back on her feet. Shouldn’t take too long. Figure I’ll leave after the harvest.” He hung the leather tool bag over the end of the ladder. “Let me push this snow out of the way, then hand me a few of the rags in there, will you?”

  Linnea sorted through the scarred tools and found a few tattered squares of muslin. He took them from her without a word.

  Busy at his work mopping up the snow from the edge of the chimney, he wasn’t paying attention to her. But she couldn’t see anything else. Not the fast-moving clouds playing peekaboo with the sun and blue sky behind him. Not the prairie dogs on the field frolicking in the slick snow. Not even the vastness of the horizon calling to her.