quagmire,
his steps a little stiff but deliberate. Two buttons had popped off
his shirt, and the clean side—the one that wasn't glued to his
skin—gapped away from his chest.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hollins?” she asked,
irked by the puny, scared sound in her own voice. She wasn't afraid
of him, although she realized now she shouldn't have distracted him
by yelling that way. She shouldn't care if he broke his silly neck
trying to get on a horse that obviously had no intention of being
ridden.
He removed his hat and briefly considered the
wet Montana dirt covering half of its brim. Then he looked up at
her.
“Mrs. Ross, shouldn't you be in the kitchen
getting supper ready?” He didn't shout. In fact, he spoke with a
quiet, conversational tone that reached only her. He didn't even
sound angry. But she knew better. His annoyance was reflected in
his eyes. “Well, yes, I—”
“The men will be expecting to eat pretty
soon.”
At the dismissal, Libby pressed her mouth
into a tight line. She inclined her head and turned for the house.
When she glanced back, she saw him watching her, as the bay had
watched him. Obviously she'd worried about his safety for
nothing.
Maybe the filly had had the right idea, after
all. Once more, she envied that horse.
*~*~*
An hour later, Libby finished crimping the
edges of the pies, then sat down to peel potatoes for supper.
Looking at the bandage on her hand again, her
thoughts returned to Tyler. He was so different from Wesley—Lord,
she couldn't believe she'd even considered the two men in the same
thought.
Wesley, though nearly the same age, had
seemed far younger than Tyler. By comparison he'd had a much softer
life, she supposed, than had Tyler. The planes of his face had been
more rounded, and his fair coloring more genteel. And she never
once heard him use the coarse language Tyler uttered every day. The
others swore, too, but not if they thought she could hear them.
Tyler didn't care who heard him.
Yet if she were going to depend on any man
again—and she found that prospect most unlikely—she'd be more
inclined to trust Tyler Hollins than Wesley Brandauer. Wesley's
earnest, honeyed words, she'd discovered, were nothing but
lies—dark, hurtful lies. His confession of love, his promise to
stand by her, all of it had evaporated as quickly as morning fog
along a summer stream. And with them had gone a lot of the hope
she’d carried in her heart since her orphaned childhood.
Libby sighed. She'd tried hard to put
Wesley out of her thoughts—even when she'd been snowbound in Ben's
cabin, and thinking about Wes had been preferable to the reality, of her situation.
She'd banished him from her heart, but she wasn't always successful
at locking him out of her memory. And now, humiliation and Wes
would be forever linked—
Just then, she became aware of a vibration in
the floor under her. She lifted her head to listen, but there
wasn't any sound, really. Not at first.
It began subtly, then increased to a heavier
rumble that made the glass in the windows rattle. Floating above
that sound was whooping and hollering that grew louder, then
fainter, then louder again, as though the wind carried it to and
fro. What was that? she wondered uneasily. It felt like an
earthquake.
The commotion drew her to the window to
investigate. She saw Tyler Hollins step up to the porch, as if to
get out of the way of an oncoming train. He shifted his weight to
one hip and crossed his arms over his chest. Looking down the road,
he grinned. His dog, Sam, ran back and forth, barking his fool head
off.
Resting her fingers on the windowsill, Libby
leaned forward to look in the same direction. It was then that she
saw two riders she recognized as Charlie Ryerson and Joe Channing
gallop past the house toward the corral. Both of them were hooting
at the tops of their lungs. Charlie's hat bounced on the back of
his shoulders, secured only by its bonnet strings, and Joe waved a
coil of rope alongside
his steps a little stiff but deliberate. Two buttons had popped off
his shirt, and the clean side—the one that wasn't glued to his
skin—gapped away from his chest.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hollins?” she asked,
irked by the puny, scared sound in her own voice. She wasn't afraid
of him, although she realized now she shouldn't have distracted him
by yelling that way. She shouldn't care if he broke his silly neck
trying to get on a horse that obviously had no intention of being
ridden.
He removed his hat and briefly considered the
wet Montana dirt covering half of its brim. Then he looked up at
her.
“Mrs. Ross, shouldn't you be in the kitchen
getting supper ready?” He didn't shout. In fact, he spoke with a
quiet, conversational tone that reached only her. He didn't even
sound angry. But she knew better. His annoyance was reflected in
his eyes. “Well, yes, I—”
“The men will be expecting to eat pretty
soon.”
At the dismissal, Libby pressed her mouth
into a tight line. She inclined her head and turned for the house.
When she glanced back, she saw him watching her, as the bay had
watched him. Obviously she'd worried about his safety for
nothing.
Maybe the filly had had the right idea, after
all. Once more, she envied that horse.
*~*~*
An hour later, Libby finished crimping the
edges of the pies, then sat down to peel potatoes for supper.
Looking at the bandage on her hand again, her
thoughts returned to Tyler. He was so different from Wesley—Lord,
she couldn't believe she'd even considered the two men in the same
thought.
Wesley, though nearly the same age, had
seemed far younger than Tyler. By comparison he'd had a much softer
life, she supposed, than had Tyler. The planes of his face had been
more rounded, and his fair coloring more genteel. And she never
once heard him use the coarse language Tyler uttered every day. The
others swore, too, but not if they thought she could hear them.
Tyler didn't care who heard him.
Yet if she were going to depend on any man
again—and she found that prospect most unlikely—she'd be more
inclined to trust Tyler Hollins than Wesley Brandauer. Wesley's
earnest, honeyed words, she'd discovered, were nothing but
lies—dark, hurtful lies. His confession of love, his promise to
stand by her, all of it had evaporated as quickly as morning fog
along a summer stream. And with them had gone a lot of the hope
she’d carried in her heart since her orphaned childhood.
Libby sighed. She'd tried hard to put
Wesley out of her thoughts—even when she'd been snowbound in Ben's
cabin, and thinking about Wes had been preferable to the reality, of her situation.
She'd banished him from her heart, but she wasn't always successful
at locking him out of her memory. And now, humiliation and Wes
would be forever linked—
Just then, she became aware of a vibration in
the floor under her. She lifted her head to listen, but there
wasn't any sound, really. Not at first.
It began subtly, then increased to a heavier
rumble that made the glass in the windows rattle. Floating above
that sound was whooping and hollering that grew louder, then
fainter, then louder again, as though the wind carried it to and
fro. What was that? she wondered uneasily. It felt like an
earthquake.
The commotion drew her to the window to
investigate. She saw Tyler Hollins step up to the porch, as if to
get out of the way of an oncoming train. He shifted his weight to
one hip and crossed his arms over his chest. Looking down the road,
he grinned. His dog, Sam, ran back and forth, barking his fool head
off.
Resting her fingers on the windowsill, Libby
leaned forward to look in the same direction. It was then that she
saw two riders she recognized as Charlie Ryerson and Joe Channing
gallop past the house toward the corral. Both of them were hooting
at the tops of their lungs. Charlie's hat bounced on the back of
his shoulders, secured only by its bonnet strings, and Joe waved a
coil of rope alongside
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