the reins on the plow and hopped to the ground. “It was easier than bringing mine over.”
“What’s mine is yours.” She lifted a slender shoulder in a strained shrug. “Or it soon will be.”
“True.” His gaze slid to the pail and jug she held. “You didn’t bring that for me.”
“No. I thought the horses might like a couple of chicken sandwiches.” A dash of humor made her blue eyes sparkle. “It’s lunchtime, or hadn’t you noticed? You’ve made so much progress already.”
“I figured there’s no time to waste. I’ve got to harvest a decent crop from this land or I won’t be able to make the land payment in October. Catching up on your mortgage is going to take all my savings.” He felt grim about that. He wasn’t a gambling man, but this was a bet he had to take. “Want me to turn the sod over in your garden so you can replant?”
“That would be nice of you.”
“I’ll do it this evening when I’m done in the fields.” He swept off his hat, taking his time at it because it gave him something to look at besides her. Blond curls brushed against the side of her face, caressed by the wind, and emphasized her fragile beauty. He ached looking at her.
“I wish there was something more than just plain sandwiches. I’m all out of cookies.” Strain tightened the corners of her mouth, stealing her attempted smile. She held out the pail and jug, as if the offering wasn’t good enough.
His throat went tight. He didn’t know how to tell her no one had made lunch for him in more than, what, twenty years? Maybe longer. For a spell, when he’d come of age, he’d worked on a ranch as a stable boy and ate in the bunkhouse—three meals a day. But there had been no one to care. He didn’t need anyone to.
He didn’t know why her gesture touched him. She handed over the jug and pail, taking care not to let their fingers touch.
Fine, he got the hint. She was a lady, as proper as they came with her pretty manners and quiet dignity. Clearly she wanted to make it clear—hands off.
Fortunately, it was what he wanted, too.
“Plain sandwiches are just fine,” he assured her, clearing his throat to make sure he kept the emotion out of it. “It was thoughtful of you. Thanks for going to the trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all.” She spun away, unconsciously beautiful. Absolutely unaware of what she’d just done.
She waltzed away with an easy grace, looking like a picture against the backdrop of the endless prairie and the blue splotches of sky between the departing clouds. Sunlight shone through to find her, highlighting her as she made her way around the outskirts of the orchard. His heart twisted hard and painful.
That wasn’t tenderness, he told himself stubbornly. It wasn’t tenderness, at all.
* * *
“At least he’s a hard worker,” Ma said as she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “That’s in his favor. Look at him go.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Mostly because she’d purposefully sat with her back to the window so she couldn’t see Joshua—and notice how in control he looked, doggedly plowing the fields.
He’d made steady progress, despite the wet conditions. She couldn’t bear to see another man in Clay’s fields. All those years she’d looked out these windows to see her husband there, working their land. Her heart ached, every dead and broken piece of it. She gathered the empty plates, stood from the table and headed to the sink.
“Have you thought about the wedding?” Ma pushed back her chair, gave her platinum up knot a pat and stood. She was a diminutive lady, slender and barely five feet tall, but her loving heart made her more substantial.
“No.” Claire sighed, setting the dishes in the sink. She stared out the window, heartsick at the decimated crops that seemed to stretch for miles. Hadn’t she gambled that the bank would wait for the harvest for their money? And now wasn’t she gambling the same thing with the next crop, only
“What’s mine is yours.” She lifted a slender shoulder in a strained shrug. “Or it soon will be.”
“True.” His gaze slid to the pail and jug she held. “You didn’t bring that for me.”
“No. I thought the horses might like a couple of chicken sandwiches.” A dash of humor made her blue eyes sparkle. “It’s lunchtime, or hadn’t you noticed? You’ve made so much progress already.”
“I figured there’s no time to waste. I’ve got to harvest a decent crop from this land or I won’t be able to make the land payment in October. Catching up on your mortgage is going to take all my savings.” He felt grim about that. He wasn’t a gambling man, but this was a bet he had to take. “Want me to turn the sod over in your garden so you can replant?”
“That would be nice of you.”
“I’ll do it this evening when I’m done in the fields.” He swept off his hat, taking his time at it because it gave him something to look at besides her. Blond curls brushed against the side of her face, caressed by the wind, and emphasized her fragile beauty. He ached looking at her.
“I wish there was something more than just plain sandwiches. I’m all out of cookies.” Strain tightened the corners of her mouth, stealing her attempted smile. She held out the pail and jug, as if the offering wasn’t good enough.
His throat went tight. He didn’t know how to tell her no one had made lunch for him in more than, what, twenty years? Maybe longer. For a spell, when he’d come of age, he’d worked on a ranch as a stable boy and ate in the bunkhouse—three meals a day. But there had been no one to care. He didn’t need anyone to.
He didn’t know why her gesture touched him. She handed over the jug and pail, taking care not to let their fingers touch.
Fine, he got the hint. She was a lady, as proper as they came with her pretty manners and quiet dignity. Clearly she wanted to make it clear—hands off.
Fortunately, it was what he wanted, too.
“Plain sandwiches are just fine,” he assured her, clearing his throat to make sure he kept the emotion out of it. “It was thoughtful of you. Thanks for going to the trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all.” She spun away, unconsciously beautiful. Absolutely unaware of what she’d just done.
She waltzed away with an easy grace, looking like a picture against the backdrop of the endless prairie and the blue splotches of sky between the departing clouds. Sunlight shone through to find her, highlighting her as she made her way around the outskirts of the orchard. His heart twisted hard and painful.
That wasn’t tenderness, he told himself stubbornly. It wasn’t tenderness, at all.
* * *
“At least he’s a hard worker,” Ma said as she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “That’s in his favor. Look at him go.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Mostly because she’d purposefully sat with her back to the window so she couldn’t see Joshua—and notice how in control he looked, doggedly plowing the fields.
He’d made steady progress, despite the wet conditions. She couldn’t bear to see another man in Clay’s fields. All those years she’d looked out these windows to see her husband there, working their land. Her heart ached, every dead and broken piece of it. She gathered the empty plates, stood from the table and headed to the sink.
“Have you thought about the wedding?” Ma pushed back her chair, gave her platinum up knot a pat and stood. She was a diminutive lady, slender and barely five feet tall, but her loving heart made her more substantial.
“No.” Claire sighed, setting the dishes in the sink. She stared out the window, heartsick at the decimated crops that seemed to stretch for miles. Hadn’t she gambled that the bank would wait for the harvest for their money? And now wasn’t she gambling the same thing with the next crop, only
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