Whitefeather's Woman by Deborah Hale

and Barton got any big plans for this afternoon?”
    â€œNothing special.” Noticing John’s dinner plate was empty, she fetched him a slice of plum cake and a cup of coffee. “We washed the laundry and hung it out this morning. If I can work up the courage, I might fry a batch of doughnuts while Barton takes his nap.”
    John bit into the cake. “This tastes good.” He sounded more than a little surprised. “I saw you hanging out the wash. That was a clever idea, tethering Barton to the clothesline so he wouldn’t wander off.”
    She’d come up with it all on her own, too. The peculiarfeeling in Jane’s heart burned warmer. “He’s steadier on his feet every day, and he does like to walk. Besides, it was too hard on my back, stooping to get wet clothes out of the basket with him in the cradleboard.”
    Jane didn’t mention the fat green grasshopper she’d had to fish out of Barton’s mouth. Why he spit out peas and carrots, but not live insects, was more than she could figure.
    â€œMaybe later you could bring this little buckeroo over to the corral and we could take him for a ride.” John leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of his coffee. “He always gets a kick out of that.”
    â€œAre you certain it would be safe?”
    Jane wiped Barton’s face and lifted him out of his high chair. For a moment, she cradled his warm, sturdy little body against hers. The swiftness and intensity of her fondness for the child frightened her. It would be hard enough to leave the Kincaid ranch when the time came, even without strong emotional ties.
    She looked up and caught John watching her with intense, perplexing concentration. The blue of his eyes sparkled as clear and brilliant as sapphires. And twice as hard.
    His stare stoked a sudden fevered blush right to the roots of Jane’s hair. She tried to break eye contact with him, only to discover she couldn’t. His piercing gaze held her, probing her secrets. Then he let her go and she found herself capable of breathing again.
    â€œThe boy’s not made of glass, Miss Harris.” He spoke quietly, as always, but in a tone that brooked no argument. “Even if he was, we’d have to toughen him up.”
    â€œAt the risk of shattering him?” Jane heard herself ask.
    Where had this unaccustomed defiance come from?Had John Whitefeather’s relentless blue gaze planted it within her?
    â€œI’m not going to set him on the back of a bucking bronco, ma’am. Just a gentle old mare who can’t do much better than walk. I’ll hold on to him good and tight in front of me.”
    John held out a large brown hand to the baby. “What do you say, Thundercloud?”
    Barton immediately grasped one of his uncle’s fingers and pulled it close to Jane’s face.
    She thrust the baby into John’s arms, trying not to sound as alarmed as the sudden movement made her feel. “Is that his Cheyenne name?”
    â€œThat’s what it means. Ruth gave it to him because he makes a lot of noise for a critter so small. You’ll come riding with us to keep an eye on him, won’t you, ma’am?”
    Jane shook her head with some vigor. “Except for that trip in from Whitehorn, I’ve never sat a horse in my life.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you say so? I would have made Lionel give us a wagon to drive out here even if I had to steal one. No two ways about it—you’ll have to learn to ride if you’re going to survive in Big Sky Country. Tell you what. I’ve got an old gelding who couldn’t work up a gallop if you dropped a jar of nitroglycerin behind him.”
    A bubble of laughter swelled inside Jane, all the more buoyant for being so unexpected. It rose and burst from her lips. “I suppose I could try.”
    â€œSure you can. Unless I miss my guess, you’ve done plenty of things this past week that you’ve