Montana Legend (Harlequin Historical, No. 624) by Jillian Hart Page B

her laugh, light and quiet, and how that made his pulse surge through his veins. Fast and thick and hot enough to make him take notice of the way her apron clung to her shape as she swished the mop across the floor between them. He was a man andcouldn’t help noticing the soft nip of her waist and the gentle sway of her breasts as she worked.
    Gage tamped down a hotter, more primal response. He was tired, that was all, and troubled by the nightmare that had torn him awake tonight. By the remnants of a dream that had been shattered when he’d heard the pop of metal in the corridor.
    Memory was a strange thing, making the past so real he could taste it, smell it. He wondered if there would ever come a time or a place where he felt safe. Had he come far enough? Would he find peace in this small Montana town? On these high, desolate plains?
    Sarah Redding wiped at the floor with determined strokes, leaving tiny soap bubbles popping in the air above his bare toes. She was looking awfully hard at the floor, and now that his head was clear and the nightmare gone, he could see why.
    Half naked, with a holstered gun in one hand. Now, didn’t that beat all? “Guess I’d best apologize. Next time I hear a commotion in the hallway, I’d better pull on a shirt first. If you come here often, that is.”
    â€œFive nights every week.”
    He reached into his room and found his shirt hanging on a peg by feel. “It’s two in the morning. When does your wild night on the town end?”
    â€œWhen I reach the end of the hall.” Her mop dove playfully at his feet.
    Being a wise man, he backed into the threshold. “So, you work half the night, and then you’re up before dawn to feed the chickens.”
    â€œSure. It keeps me busy. Out of trouble.”
    He heard what she didn’t say. When you have a child, you do what it takes to provide for her. He knew all about that. And he’d had his share of seeing whathappened when parents didn’t. Or worse, for that matter.
    He closed his mind against the memories he didn’t want. From a time when he’d worn a silver badge on his chest.
    â€œAs you can see, I get into my fair share of trouble.” Her mop bumped the wall, scrubbing the last of the floor. “Banging my bucket in the hall, waking up paying guests. I hope you’re not angry with me.”
    â€œI would have woken anyhow.”
    â€œA light sleeper?”
    â€œA troubled one.” It surprised him to admit the truth, but the low-spoken words escaped from his tongue and he shrugged, bashful at revealing so much.
    â€œThe life of a widow. Or widower.” Her voice softened and she straightened, turning to gaze up at him with understanding alight in her gentle blue eyes.
    It had been a long time since he could look on the world and see goodness in the people in it. And it touched him right in the center of his chest, in the place where his heart used to be.
    Where he hoped it still was.
    â€œDon’t tell me you ride home alone this time of night,” he said as he lifted the bucket for her.
    â€œAll right, I won’t tell you.” She lifted her chin a notch as she stole the pail from his grip. “Now that I know you’re a light sleeper, I shall try harder tomorrow night not to wake you.”
    A frown furrowed a disapproving line across his brow. “Your uncle thinks so little of your protection that he would allow this?”
    â€œThe countryside is safe.”
    â€œNo countryside is that safe.” He passed a handover his eyes, looking troubled, looking weary. “Let me grab my boots and I will see you home.”
    â€œNo, that’s not necessary—”
    â€œI’m not going to sleep at all if I let you go alone.”
    â€œI have done so hundreds of times,” she reassured him, touched that he—nearly a perfect stranger—would care for her welfare when her kin cared so little.
    Still, she was