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Her parents had been horrified. She sensed their relief when she said she’d be moving to Canada, thousands of miles away. That had hurt, really hurt. Abby knew it would be a long time before she could go home again.
HER BUS CAME IN to the Calgary depot at seven o’clock. He knew, not because Jesse had told him, but because he’d called to find out himself. The hour and a half from seven to half past eight was the longest Noah had ever sat through. If her bus was on time, if they hadn’t stopped anywhere, they should be driving up to the ranch any minute now.
He didn’t know why he felt the way he did about Jesse’s marriage to this unknown American from South Dakota. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It wasn’t that he was worried, or checking up on his brother, exactly, when he’d called the bus station. Jesse had appeared at his door just before he’d left for Calgary, all freshly showered and shaved, wearing a new shirt.
“Wish me luck,” he’d said. He looked like a man in love. Almost.
Noah didn’t fool himself that Jesse was in love. Jesse was an impulsive, warmhearted, generous man, and no doubt he’d be in love soon enough. Noah cherished no romantic notions about women himself. One was quite a lot like another, as far as he was concerned. If a woman was healthy and clean and moderately pretty, had a sense of humor... well, if you had to, you could probably talk yourself into calling it love.
If Jesse could only bend his mind around being tied down and a family man. That was the key. Maybe that was the part Noah was having such a hard time with—it just wasn’t like his brother to embrace responsibility quite so enthusiastically.
Of course, he hadn’t met this Abby Steen. Maybe she was the type any man would welcome, pregnant or not. Maybe she was an incredibly sexy, energetic, passionate, unrestrained woman any man would be happy to have in his bed, any time.
Plus, he thought idly, a good cook.
Noah reflected. Did he know anyone like that? Nope. He sighed, and cracked the top on his can of beer, his second. He was sitting on the darkened veranda and just about to go in because the mosquitoes had finally found him when he saw the lights of Jesse’s pickup coming slowly down the long grade that led to the ranch. He glanced at his watch. Nearly nine. His collie dog jumped up and barked twice, as she always did when she heard Jesse’s truck. Jesse’s stray howled in the distance. This was the wild dog his brother had found a year before at the side of the highway, injured, and had befriended and half-tamed. No one else on the ranch could get near it. Champ, Jesse called the animal, although he and Carl never called it anything but Jesse’s stray.
That settled it. His brother was back, presumably with the fiancеe.
Where did that put Noah? He wasn’t sure. He raised his beer and took his feet down from the railing where he’d been resting them, sitting tipped back on the old rocker. His boots made a solid thump on the wooden deck of the veranda. He could hardly saunter on down and introduce himself to the happy pair this evening.
He’d better leave it until Jesse brought her over, maybe tomorrow. Should he do anything in particular for the new couple? Social-wise? Invite a few neighbors? Barbecue? Too early for that; the bugs would kill them. He’d have to get the house cleaned up, which was a drag. Noah was no social animal; the thought of a party, dinner or otherwise, paralyzed him. Maybe he could ask someone else to handle it for him. Who? Donna Beaton? He’d dated her a while back but they’d split amicably months ago. Donna would do it, though, if he asked her. It was the kind of thing Donna was good at.
But he’d sure hate for any notion to get out that he and Donna were an item again. Because they weren’t. He’d backed off with Donna when he realized there was no future to their relationship. Not that either of them wanted any future together, nor did he want a long-term relationship without marriage. First thing you knew, a fellow could end up with all the obligations and none of the perks. He didn’t want to be married, though. Still, at his age—he was pushing thirty-five—it was getting to be a real nuisance wining and dining a lady as a preliminary to getting into her bed once in a while. Then, if the lady was the sensitive type, there was all that trouble extricating yourself from a relationship you knew was a dead end without hurting her feelings.
Damn. Noah sighed again. Maybe Jesse had it figured out, after all. Sow plenty of wild oats, then settle down and start harvesting some of the crop.
He saw the lights go on in his brother’s house and heard his dogs barking an enthusiastic welcome. He could mostly hear Stella, the little terrier-heeler cross, his brother’s favorite. He glanced over to Brandis’s trailer, which they’d gotten ready for Abby Steen, midway between his house and his brother’s. The windows were dark; the fridge was stocked; there were brand-new sheets on the bed. Jesse’d seen to it, at Noah’s suggestion. Noah hadn’t checked. It was none of his business. He just hoped the fridge held more than Big Rock lager and frozen pizza.
He stood abruptly, draining his beer, and walked into the house. He turned on the hall light, then flicked it off again and climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the dark. Cold and alone, in a bed that probably hadn’t been made properly since—when? Since Challa had left? Noah had had a one-time experience with a live-in lover in his mid-twenties. Finally Challa had gotten fed up with his dithering—should they get married, shouldn’t they?—and gone home. She was married now to a man from her reserve, a Stoney, and had two kids, last he’d heard. They lived west of Pincher Creek; her man was foreman at one of the big ranches down there. He hoped she was happy.
Oh well, cold and alone or not, he’d do what he usually did—read for a while, maybe, then try and get some sleep. He was meeting a man in town tomorrow, early, around eight o’clock at the Chickadee Cafе, someone who might do some custom seeding for him next month. He had an interview with the banker, as well, his regular twice-a-year talk. Then there was this business of Jesse and his bride-to-be.
He’d better ask them to dinner, at least. Someone had to take charge of the social niceties, and he was pretty sure his brother wasn’t going to do it.
“SAY, NOAH! Lookee here—”
Noah poured himself another cup of coffee from the counter machine without turning around. He recognized the voice—Wilf van Rijn. One of the dairy farmers just northeast of town. Leisurely, Noah picked up a fresh blueberry muffin from the plate near the coffee machine and nodded to Tina, the waitress behind the counter. She’d put it on his bill.
“Yeah?” He finally turned.
Wilf held up the newspaper he was reading, the Calgary Herald, a big grin on his face. He shook the paper. “Right here in the classifieds. A wife for you. City gal.”
A couple of the other men glanced up and chuckled. A few slid their eyes toward Noah, who was walking back to the booth he’d chosen. The fellow he was meeting this morning was late. It was already quarter past.
Noah smiled. It was a never-ending joke. Some of the local farmers had decided it was time he got married. Perhaps it was true what they said, that misery liked company. Two of the men’s wives were enjoying dalliances around the district—one with a hydro lineman and one with the vet’s assistant. It wasn’t exactly a secret; it was also none of his business.
“So, what you got there, Wilf?” he asked good-humoredly. He’d considered mentioning Jesse’s upcoming nuptials to take the spotlight off himself, but thought better of it. Now was not the time. He hadn’t even met the bride-to-be yet When he’d driven past the trailer this morning, he’d noticed the blinds were shut. That was a good sign. It meant she was sleeping in her own bed—although why the hell he should care about that now, he didn’t know. At least it indicated Jesse had taken him seriously when he’d warned about the gossip there’d be, which was some consolation in this whole mess.
“Listen to this—‘wanted, long-term partner, nonsmoker’—that’d be you, Noah—” Van Rijn glanced up, grinning, then returned to the newspaper column “—‘social drinker, enjoys dancing and going for walks in the country’—” The whole room erupted in a roar of male laughter.
“‘Loves Shania Twain and Garth Brooks’—” Another hoot. Noah smiled.
“‘Likes to cuddle on long winter nights.’ Oh, that’s good. ‘GWF’—say, what’s that mean? ‘G-W-F’?” Van Rijn glanced up, a puzzled expression on his broad good-natured face.
“Means she ain’t looking for no man, Wilf,” someone offered. The room erupted in laughter again.
“Well, he-ell,” the farmer finished ruefully, folding up the paper and setting it on the table in front of him. “It said ‘partner.’ Don’t say I didn’t try, Noah. I’m lookin’ out for your marital interests, like always....” He winked at the others and they all smiled and returned to their coffee mugs and plates of fried eggs and potatoes.
As did Noah. “Thanks, Wilf. I appreciate your interest—say. there’s Millard now.” The man he was meeting was just approaching the outer door.
Five minutes later, he was deep in conversation with Gene Millard, the operator he hoped to hire for some custom seeding next month, and the cafе banter was forgotten. It wasn’t as though that was the first time he’d been through that particular conversation. He got a version of it whenever he showed up in town early for coffee, about the time all the other farmers were having a cafе breakfast before starting their business in town.
WHEN NOAH GOT HOME, he noticed that Jesse’s pickup wasn’t in his driveway and there was no sign of activity at his bungalow, beyond the usual barking dogs. The blinds on the trailer were up.
It was after one o’clock. Maybe the lovebirds had gone out for lunch somewhere. Like Noah, Jesse wasn’t the world’s best cook.
Noah parked in his usual spot beside his house and got out, stretching first and then bending down to fondle Pat’s ears. Pat, his collie dog, was getting on, nearly twelve now, but still one of the best dogs for cattle know-how he’d ever owned. He walked up the steps to his kitchen door. The house wasn’t locked. He rarely locked it, unless no one else was at the ranch and he was going away for a few days. Carl was around somewhere, and wherever Jesse was, he’d be back soon.
The house was dim with no lights on and rather chilly, even at midday. He’d turned off the furnace at the beginning of the month, but he was beginning to think he’d been a little hasty. April had started off sunny and unseasonably warm, but that hadn’t lasted. The past few days had been windy, and wind sure chilled a place fast. He made a mental note to relight the furnace pilot when he came in for supper that evening. Speaking of supper...Noah walked over to the refrigerator and pulled a pound of ground beef out of the freezer compartment and tossed it into the sink to thaw.
These were the bits and pieces of his life, he thought gloomily as he began to climb the stairs to his bedroom to change into working clothes. They’d always been good enough before—why was he obsessing about them now? Because Jesse had landed himself a bride? Because he wasn’t going to be the main person in his brother’s life anymore? It was crazy; he and Jesse weren’t any closer, now that they were both grown, than any other pair of brothers. They’d been close as kids, but then farm and ranch kids usually were. There was work to do together and fun together in isolated circumstances. When Casey’d been alive...
And Macy, their mother.
Noah shook his head. No sense dwelling on the past. Macy’d never been in good health, and if she was alive today she’d be close to seventy. As for his father, no one knew what had happened to Jake. Most days, Noah was glad he was gone. Some days, he wished he at least knew if he was dead or alive.
Noah quickly changed into jeans and a well-washed flannel shirt, the sleeves of which he rolled up halfway to his elbows. He took his battered Stetson off the rack in the kitchen as he went out. It was lunchtime but he wasn’t hungry.
Pat didn’t get up, merely slapped her full-feathered tail slowly against the worn porch boards. Noah adjusted his hat against the sunshine. He’d go out to the machine shed and see how Carl was doing with the alternator part that had come in for the Massey Ferguson yesterday. Then there was that new colt he wanted to check on. He’d bred his favorite mare to one of Jeremiah Blake’s stallions over at the Diamond 8 last summer, and the foal was a beauty. He’d had a rheumy running eye, though, the past week, for which the vet had sold him ointment to administer twice a day. The eye seemed to be clearing up just fine.
Noah headed toward the barn, followed by a couple of the ranch dogs that generally hung around by the bunkhouse. Right now Carl was the only one in residence there, but at roundup and branding times and during the haying season, the bunkhouse would be full. He’d need a part-time cook then, too. Always something to do or think about on a ranch.
Noah rounded the corner by the barn, intent on his tasks for the afternoon. He stopped dead when one of the dogs froze, alert, one paw raised.
The east side of the paddock was mostly in shade from the big feed silos thirty feet farther to the east. Shafts of April sunlight stabbed through, between the silos. In one of those shafts of sunlight was a woman, leaning on the fence, holding out her hand to the curious foal, making small, soothing noises that Noah could barely hear. The dog must have heard her before he did.
His heart hammered. Damn it! This must be Jesse’s woman. Where in hell was his brother?
He stood still a few more seconds, rapidly taking in the medium height, the slim build, faded jeans, baggy T-shirt, sneakers, the long pale hair hanging loosely down her back. She was turned away from him and Noah didn’t think she was aware of his presence.
He cleared his throat and the dog bounded forward, released from his watch instincts. He saw the woman’s hands tighten on the top rail of the paddock, and the foal, snorting, raced back to his dam, his broom of a tail standing straight up. Noah’s mare whickered to him, but didn’t emerge from the shade of a big cottonwood where she stood swatting flies. \ Then the woman turned. She had a calm, pretty face—nothing fantastically beautiful—wide blue eyes and looked very, very young.
He stepped forward, clearing his throat again. “I’m, uh, Noah Winslow, Jesse’s brother.” He extended his hand automatically. She looked at it for a split second, then offered hers. Her hand was small and soft and, like his, tanned. A sensible hand, the nails trimmed short and unpolished. He dropped it like a hot potato. “You must be Abby.”
“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his and causing something to twist hard in his gut. He fought to hold her gaze, forcing himself to look at her face when his first instinct had been to glance at her belly. To see the swell there that was his brother’s child. The reason she was here in the first place.
“Yes, I’m Abby,” she repeated quietly. “Abby Steen.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHERE’S JESSE?” he demanded.
The man standing before her looked angry. Jesse had said his brother was difficult. The word he’d used was tough. This man was older than Jesse, and perhaps an inch taller. He was a big man, but where Jesse was broad and deep-chested, this man was lean and tough looking as nails. Right now he looked like he could chew the zinc coating off a few.
“He’s gone to town,” Abby said, twisting her hands behind her. She wasn’t afraid of him but she’d seen the way he’d fought to keep his eyes from her waist, and it had embarrassed her. Not enough to shelter her belly, though. She was proud of her pregnancy; she wanted this baby. Husband or no husband.
“He’s in town?” Noah Winslow glanced behind her, toward the paddock. “And he left you here?”
“Yes.” She didn’t feel she needed to add any reasons, or justify Jesse’s behavior. He’d done nothing wrong.
Abby could hear the soft pad-pad of the mare approaching across the grass. With the foal, she hoped. She loved horses and as a child growing up had often wished she could have one. Her father regarded a horse as a poor investment. She’d been involved with 4-H, as many farm children were, but she’d always bought and raised a Jersey heifer, one of her father’s animals. Her father had put the money she paid for the calf into a fund for her and her sister’s further education. Then, when she and her sister sold their animals, they were expected to add to the fund.
Noah shot her an odd questioning look, then stepped closer to the fence, with what she realized was a rare flash of tenderness on his grim face. For the foal. Perhaps he reserved all his feeling for animals. He held his hand out to the mare and scratched between her ears. He looked briefly toward Abby. “What did he go to town for?”
It was a simple, direct question. As though he’d half expected to find her here. As though he already knew who she was, where she fit in. That she belonged to Jesse. She supposed Jesse had told him. But did he know how scared she was? Did he know how many second thoughts she’d had since Jesse had picked her up at the bus station the night before?
“He said he wanted to get the marriage license. and make a few arrangements,” she said, explaining after all. She took a deep breath, for calm. “We’ve decided we should get married as soon as possible.”
Then he looked at her waist. Abby had the distinct feeling he’d wanted to all along and couldn’t stop himself now. His eyes immediately returned to the mare, but she hadn’t missed the tightened jaw, either. “Makes sense,” was his noncommittal comment.
He reached out and tried to touch the foal, which jumped back at the last moment and went to stand at his mama’s flank. “I thought maybe he’d have taken care of that by now. The license, I mean.”
She met his level questioning glance. His eyes were a greenish-hazel color, not blue like Jesse’s. “He said he was waiting until I got here. That I might have some papers he’d need.”
“Uh-huh.”
Noah stepped onto the lower rail of the fence and threw his left leg over the top rail. Then he was inside, approaching the foal with a low, soothing tone, his hand out. The foal stood nervously, ready to run. Expertly, with slow, steady movements, Noah wrapped his arm around the foal’s neck and held him firmly. He bent and drew the lower eyelid down with one thumb, while the foal struggled futilely in his grip.
“Is something wrong with him? With his eye?” Abby moved closer to the fence, curious, her hands in her jeans’ pockets.
Noah didn’t look up. “He’s had a bad eye for a few days. Seems to be cleared up now.” He stroked the foal’s white blaze and then scratched between his ears briefly before releasing him. With a high-pitched squeal, the foal wheeled and galloped awkwardly to the far side of the paddock. The mare merely turned her head and gave her offspring a mild wondering glance.
Abby smiled. “She doesn’t seem too concerned.”
“No.” Noah glanced her way and for a second or two, she thought he’d smile, too. At her. Then he returned his attention to the mare. “She’s a good old girl. One of the best.” He patted her neck affectionately and the mare tossed her head up and down vigorously, almost as though she were answering him.
“What’s her name?”
“Peg.”
“Peg?” Abby thought that was a very ordinary name for a horse. “What kind of horse is she?”
Noah threw her a surprised look. “Quarter horse,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt that he considered her a complete idiot.
He came toward the rails of the corral. “When did my brother say he was coming back?”
“He didn’t say. Soon, I think.”
“I see.” He studied her briefly. Abby had the impression he didn’t miss much. “You settle in all right?” he asked.
“In the trailer? Yes, thank you.” She stepped back and watched as he climbed back over the rail. “I’m delighted. I didn’t know I’d have my own little place.”
He frowned. Perhaps he didn’t care for small talk. Surly brute. “You have lunch yet?”
“Well, there’s some frozen stuff in the fridge I planned to take out—”
“Come on up to the house,” he interrupted. “I’ll give you a sandwich or something.” He paused, hesitated, frowned again. Then he fell into step beside her. Abby heard the clang of metal on metal from behind the barn; someone must be working on some machinery back there. In a way—she didn’t know why—she was relieved to know there was another person on the place.
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to bother you. I’m sure you have plenty to do—”
“No bother. I’ve got stuff to do, yes, but I can’t let you miss lunch because Jesse’s gone off to town and hasn’t got back yet—”
Abby was going to protest again, then realized that, like many men, he probably thought she was in a fragile condition because of her pregnancy and couldn’t possibly miss a meal. The truth was, she was hungry. And when she’d looked inside the trailer’s fridge and seen only a quart of milk, a six-pack of beer, some margarine, a loaf of the most hideous white sliced bread and vinyl-packaged orangish cheese slices, as well as a freezer full of pizza cartons, she’d lost her appetite, despite her hunger. All she’d had for breakfast was a glass of milk. Since she’d gotten rid of her morning sickness in late March, she hadn’t suffered from any loss of appetite. Until today.
“All right.” She took a deep breath and glanced up at her future brother-in-law. He was only trying to be hospitable, in his straightforward way, she supposed. She had to do her best to make this new life work out, and one of the jobs she’d have would be to get along with all of Jesse’s relations. Including this brother.
“All right, I’ll have some lunch, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble. Jesse should be back by then.” She didn’t add that she’d been alarmed when Jesse had come down to the trailer to tell her he was going to town to do some business. Somehow she’d thought their reunion would be a bit more romantic. That maybe he’d even take her to town, introduce her around. Still, his excuse to leave her behind—that she needed to catch up on her rest—made sense, too.
Noah nodded briefly and led her toward the shabbily painted white house on the hill—the house Jesse had told her belonged to his parents before him and was now his older brother’s. The house was surrounded by thickets of unkempt grass and unpruned rose creepers. The family home. From the look of the place, you certainly couldn’t accuse the Winslows of being house-proud.
ABBY DIDN’T THINK she’d ever seen such a shambles in her life.
The house wasn’t, well, dirty-although she was pretty sure it hadn’t seen more than a broom in quite some time—but it was a general mess. There were newspapers piled high on a rocking chair. There were magazines and jars of peanut butter and honey and sugar and jam and industrial-size cardboard containers of salt and pepper on the table. There had to be at least five or six calendars stacked behind the current one on the wall, all hanging from a six-inch nail. When the nail was full, did he remove the earliest calendars and discard them? Probably not.
The sink was full of rinsed-but-not-washed dishes, and Abby noticed that Noah retrieved clean plates and cutlery from the dishwasher. He was obviously of the philosophy that you took clean dishes out of the dishwasher until it was empty, then you loaded it back up with the soiled ones. This could take time. And for a single man, it probably meant several days with dishes stacked in the sink.
The concept of replacing clean dishes in a cupboard and keeping the dirty ones in the dishwasher, not the sink, was clearly a foreign one. Abby could relate—her father was like that. Not that her mother ever left her father alone long enough to have the dishes stack up to any degree.
There was an elderly dog asleep under the table. It didn’t move when they came in, and Abby hoped it wasn’t dead. The microwave looked well used, and two burners of the stove were covered with a metal tray holding first-aid materials—bandages, Mercurochrome, Vaseline, burn ointment, tweezers, disinfectant. She supposed that was because it was handy. It also indicated he didn’t cook much, or not with the range, anyway.
“Sandwich?” Noah waved her toward the table and stood with the refrigerator door open. She could see that it was well stocked.
“S-sure. A sandwich would be fine.” She sat down on a hard wooden chair.
“Grilled cheese? Hot Reuben? Ham, mustard and pickle?”
“Uh.” Hot Reuben? “Whatever you’re having.”
“Okay. Reuben, it is.” He glanced at her and again, Abby glimpsed the humor that lay beneath the man’s craggy exterior. He was probably joking. She was game.
Abby watched as he took rye bread from a cupboard—at least it wasn’t sliced white—and liberally spread four slices with butter and mustard. Then he piled on cheese slices—Cheddar, not Swiss or Muenster, but that was okay—and pastrami, topping the whole with some sauerkraut he spooned out of a jar he’d taken from the fridge. He only looked over at her once. “You can dump the junk that’s on the table onto one of the chairs, if you want,” he invited cordially.
She did; meanwhile he took the sandwiches to the microwave and nuked them for a minute or so, then retrieved two glasses from the dishwasher. “Milk, juice or beer?” he asked, holding up the glasses.
“Milk for me,” she replied. She found this whole process fascinating. He appeared to be very comfortable in his own kitchen, as though he’d traced the path from refrigerator to table to microwave so many times he could make a sandwich and get a beer in his sleep.
Noah brought two plates and another plate with the sandwiches on them. The bread was steaming—not exactly grilled, but definitely hot. Then he went back to the refrigerator and got out a jug of milk and a can of beer, which he held in one hand, the two glasses in the other.
