Whitefeather's Woman by Deborah Hale Page A

never tackled before.”
    Did a hint of admiration warm his words?
    â€œThat’s true.” She’d made a fair job of them, too. But riding high off the ground on the back of such a large,powerful animal? “Then again, I’ve never heard of a person getting bucked off a washboard.”
    Â 
    John saddled both horses, though he had more than a few doubts that Jane Harris would show up for their ride. To his surprise, she did.
    To his greater surprise, she looked almost beautiful.
    In the week since her arrival, the scrapes and bruises on her face had healed. Suddenly, John noticed.
    Somewhere in that trunk of Marie Kincaid’s, Jane had found a riding habit. The cloth was a little rumpled in places, but the fitted black jacket showed off the curve of her bosom in a way that made the collar of John’s shirt tighten. A ruffle of white lace at the throat emphasized the daintiness of her features. She might not be as striking a beauty as Ruth or Lizzie or Abby, but she was every inch a lady.
    A lady far more suited to the refined city life back East than to the vital, rough-edged existence in Big Sky Country. She was a woman who needed a wealthy, cultured gentleman to pamper her the way she deserved. With a sudden pang of regret, John realized he wasn’t doing her any favors by helping her fit in around the ranch. Sooner or later, she’d figure out this wasn’t the place for her.
    Then she’d go away.
    â€œI hope we won’t be keeping you from your work.” Her voice held a note of uncertainty, as though she was fishing for any excuse not to do this.
    John thought about the maverick filly he’d privately dubbed Cactus Heart. “I haven’t got a single thing in the world I’d rather do than take my nephew for a ride.”
    Barton clearly felt the same way. He held his stout little arms out to the horses and babbled with delight. Johnmounted the mare and reached down to lift the baby from Jane’s arms.
    She let him go reluctantly. “You will keep a tight hold on him, won’t you? He squirms like the dickens when he gets excited.”
    â€œI know that, ma’am. Been around this young fellow since the day he was born.” Somehow, John felt he should resent her protectiveness of his nephew. But he couldn’t work up a pinch of the feeling that usually overwhelmed him when he was dealing with white folks.
    Her arms looked strangely empty without the baby in them.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Jane.
    John had never met a person so quick to say those words. They usually stuck tight in his own craw.
    â€œYou’re right, of course,” she continued. “It’s just that he’s my responsibility and I’ve become very attached to him in the short time we’ve been together.”
    John knew that, too. It showed in the way she held the boy. It glowed in her smile and warmed her words when she spoke to him. That soft, maternal quality flattered her appearance far more than all Marie Kincaid’s fancy clothes. Maybe that was why he found it impossible to resent her.
    John Whitefeather had never been much given to smiling, and he didn’t smile now. But he cast Jane a look he hoped would reassure her.
    â€œDon’t you fret about young Barton. I’m partial to the little rascal myself. I’ll see he doesn’t come to any harm.”
    Too late, John realized Barton’s pretty nanny would need his help to mount the gelding.
    So did she, by the look of it.
    â€œYou and Barton go ahead and ride. I’ll just watch fromhere.” Sounding more relieved than anything, she waved them on their way.
    Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed one of the ranch hands approaching the corral.
    â€œCan I be of service, ma’am?” Floyd Cobbs removed his hat. John didn’t think the fellow was much to look at, but by all accounts Floyd fancied himself a ladies’ man. “Help you onto that horse,