Montana Legend

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“What?” he said for the tenth time that morning.

“At breakfast, Mrs. McCullough told me the schoolteacher was real nice.”

“So I heard.” He’d been there, too, blurry-eyed from a night of hard riding and, when he’d returned to the inn, hours filled with troubled dreams.

“Do you know what?” This time she didn’t pause but went right on talking over the sound of the saw. “Her name is Miss Fitzpatrick. Guess that means she ain’t married.”

“Guess so.” The saw’s teeth caught in the stubborn wood and the metal screeched in protest. He held back a curse as he worked the damn thing loose.

“Know what, Pa?”

“What?”

“I sure hope Miss Fitzpatrick likes me. Not that I want to be her favorite or nothin’, ’cuz I get to be the favorite a lot.”

Gage leaned on the saw and studied his daughter. Sparkling and excited. This new teacher was apparently a big worry, but as much as he loved Lucy, he had to get this house built. There was a whole lot of work to do before the mares started to foal.

“I reckon Scout is wondering why you aren’t showing her the new spread.” He set back to work. “Why don’t you go ride her around so she can get to know the place?”

“Sure. Know what, Pa?”

“What, Lucy?”

“’Suppose there’s lots of girls and boys my age at that school?”

“I reckon so. Now go ride your mare.”

“Oh, all right.” Lucy sparkled. “Do you know what, Pa?”

“Lucy.”

She giggled, not the least bit perturbed by his mood. “I’m gonna go ride, but I want some of Sarah’s pie for lunch.”

“Go.” Gage bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

There went his little girl, dashing through the weeds. Lucy flourished wherever they’d landed, but she looked lighter somehow, as if this place suited her. She hopped over the rail fence and unwound Scout’s reins from the post. With a whoop, she leaped onto Scout’s withers and the two of them were off, streaking out of sight.

Just how long would she be able to stay out of trouble? He didn’t know. Lucy was a mystery to him, but he loved her. He shook his head, sank his saw into the cut and worked, sweat dripping down his face as the sun strengthened.

This was happiness. A beautiful morning. Hard work to occupy him. A day spread out before him without a single problem he couldn’t handle. He’d been needing this for a long time. Wandering from job to job, trying to put the past behind him hadn’t worked. Maybe the peace of this great land would be the balm he needed.

The timber broke apart and he wiped his brow with his shirt. He straightened, taking a breather. He could see Lucy loping Scout through the fields and into the creek. Water splashed everywhere.

The squeak of a buggy wheel spun him around. Was it Sarah? He didn’t know why his thoughts turned to her, maybe it was because he knew she lived close. When he spied the tasseled surrey drawn by a pair of matching gray Arabians, he couldn’t explain the disappointment that whipped through him. It wasn’t Sarah.

What was wrong with him? He needed his head checked, that’s what it was. A man opposed to marriage knew better than to start pining after a woman looking for matrimony.

“Mr. Gatlin, I presume?” The surrey squealed to a halt.

There, looking at him from beneath a fancy bonnet, was a beautiful redhead with a fetching smile. He knew the look of hope, having seen it a time or two before, and panic kicked through him like a cantankerous mule.

Being a brave man, he straightened his shoulders, told himself to buck up, and managed what he hoped was a cordial smile. “Howdy, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“Then you are Mr. Gatlin.” Her smile widened, and there was something artificial about it, as if she’d practiced just that same striking curve of mouth and sparkle of eye in a mirror.

“I hate to say I am.” Resigned, he knelt to heft the timber off the sawhorse.

“Then I’m so pleased I was able to find you at home.” She climbed down from the surrey. “I wanted to welcome you to our little corner of Montana. I baked a cake for you.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am—”

“Call me Marilyn.” She gazed up at him through long lashes, a coy look, just this side of proper, but her message was clear.

How many more women were going to be stopping by to measure up the new bachelor? He dropped the timber, letting it thud to the ground. “That was mighty kind of you, ma’am, but I’m already stocked up on baked goods.”

“I’m sure your daughter will help you eat it.” Marilyn pranced closer on her dainty slippers, arms extended with a glass cake plate.

Angel food. Lucy’s favorite. It wasn’t as if he could be impolite and send her away. He wasn’t a man who could hurt a woman’s feelings, but he didn’t feel right about taking the cake. Or the delicate plate it was on.

“My daughter and I thank you, ma’am.” He wasn’t about to use her first name. He’d learned long ago that would only encourage a marriage-minded woman.

There was only one thing to do. He heaved another timber onto the sawhorse. “It was kind of you to stop by.” He grabbed his saw and set to work.

He figured Miss Marilyn had a few prying questions for him, and after she’d batted her eyes a few more times and walked with a sway of her curvy hips meaning to give him something to think about, she’d be gone.

But not soon enough.

Gage set his jaw, watched the saw bite into the raw lumber, and cursed. All he wanted was to be left alone. Was that too much to ask?

At the sound of a knock at the door Sarah looked up from her kneading. There, on the other side of the pink mesh screen door, stood little Lucy Gatlin.

Her freckled face was shaded by her sunbonnet and sparkled with a grin as she pressed against the mesh. “Howdy, Sarah. Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m making bread. What are you up to?”

“Nothin’.” Lucy pulled open the screen door and leaned one reed-thin shoulder on the frame. “That looks sticky.”

“That’s why I use flour.” Sarah dug the heel of her hand into the dough ball. What was that look on Lucy’s face? Her eyes were pinched, her mouth pursed tight. “I wager your father buys bread in town.”

“Yep.” Lucy took one step forward, watching intently. “That pie you made was real good. We had big slices after supper last night.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Lucy stalked closer. “I bet your bread is real good.”

“I can bring over a loaf when it’s done cooling.”

“Could you?” Lucy’s dark eyes sparkled like Gage’s, full of something extraordinary.

Sarah couldn’t help being charmed. “You can help yourself to a roll if you’d like.” She nodded toward the wire racks on the other side of the kitchen.

“Gee, thanks!”

Sarah pinched the ends of the rolled dough and popped it into a waiting pan. The last one. The back of her neck ached as she straightened. She’d been bending over the breadboard since dawn, but at least the hardest work of the day was over.

Sarah opened the oven door, ignored the blast of heat and slipped her hand inside to test the temperature. “Do you want a glass of milk to go with that?”

“Nope. Can Ella come play?”

“So that’s why you came to raid my kitchen.” Sarah slipped the half dozen-bread pans into the oven and eased the door shut. “Ella’s in her room—”

Footsteps knelled in the front room as Ella burst into sight. “Can I, Ma? Can I please?”

Breathless, Ella clasped her hands together and pleaded. It had been a long time since there had been anyone Ella’s age to play with.

“Take your sweater.” Sarah tried to keep a firm look so there would be no argument. “And you girls don’t go far.”

“We won’t!”

The screen door slammed shut. Laughing to herself, Sarah watched the girls dash into the yard. Ella tugged on her sweater while Lucy untied Scout from the porch post. The bell-like cheer of their voices rang through the kitchen. What luck that a girl Ella’s age had moved in next door.

“Going to take Mr. Gatlin a loaf of your bread, are you?” Cousin Lark, a young girl of sixteen, swept into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Sarah. It sounds like a wasted effort to me.”

“A kind act is never wasted.” Knowing full well what Lark meant, Sarah swept the caked flour and bits of dough into the garbage bucket. “Would you like to take some fresh rolls to your meeting in town?”

“As if I would bring something homemade.” Lark wrinkled her dainty nose as she lifted her best cloak from the peg at the door. “Although I’m sure your baking leaves a certain impression with a man like Mr. Gatlin.”

Sarah had grown used to her stepcousin’s biting remarks, and she was old enough to know the girl was spoiled and sheltered. Life would teach her differently soon enough. But what truly cut to the quick was the derisive look that said, “poor relation.”

That was a sore point. Sarah felt her face flame and she turned her squared back, grinding her mouth shut and keeping it that way. She could not risk losing her temper and being tossed out of the house, a house Ella still needed.

Sarah’s gaze shot to the window where her little girl was stroking Scout’s silky-looking neck. Ella glowed with happiness, standing beside her new friend, but she remained wan and thin. No amount of food and care seemed to make a difference. Ella’s health was still frail, the doctor had told her. It was likely to remain that way for a while longer.

“Everyone in town will get a chuckle out of your baking for Mr. Gatlin.” Lark shot out the door, apparently delighted to have the last word.

Sarah leaned her forehead against the upper cupboard door and tried not to let the words take root, but how could she help it? Especially when Lark was right.