kissing her, making her
want him all over again didn’t change anything. Five years ago she’d given him
the ultimatum. Her or Montana. He’d taken Montana.
* * *
Cursing himself up one side and down the other, Brett
swung into the saddle and spun the horse around. He kneed it hard enough to leap
into a run, putting much needed distance between him and Ester. One look had
told him all he needed to know. She was as stubborn as ever, and kissing her was
about the stupidest thing he could have done. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself.
Seeing those flower-blue eyes, the perfect—kissable—curve of her lips, the fine,
corn silk—yellow hair that floated around her sweet little face and down her
shoulders is all it had taken.
Her hair had always been as soft as rabbit fur. She’d laughed
when he’d told her that once. Said she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or
not.
That memory did bring a smile to Brett’s face. He’d tanned a
rabbit hide after her comment and sewn it into a little bag himself, with one of
his mother’s darning needles, complete with a drawstring on the top, and given
it to Ester for her fifteenth birthday.
She’d treasured that bag, and he wondered if she still had it.
Probably not. When he’d left Cutter’s Corner five years ago she’d told him if he
rode away she’d forget he ever existed, and that most likely meant getting rid
of anything that might remind her of him.
A hard knot formed in his stomach and his lips grew tight, even
though they still tingled—no, burned—from kissing her. He’d asked her to come
with him to Montana, but she’d refused. Said if he loved her, he’d stay here.
Well, he wasn’t going down that road again. His love for her wasn’t the issue.
She was the one that didn’t love him. Not enough to leave Cutter’s Corner
anyway. She didn’t love anyone that much. He’d been given proof of that a few
minutes ago, when she said her parents had moved, but she hadn’t.
The horse had set their course, and now it stopped. Brett
glanced over his shoulder, confirming he had ridden right through the center of
town, all the way to the south end, where nothing but empty lots lay before him,
spring grass covering the ground.
He climbed down, walked forward to where his parents’ house had
been. Not so much as a burnt footing said that anything used to sit here, that
people used to live here. His throat swelled and his eyes stung, and he shut his
lids, his mind rereading the letter Ester had sent him. It had told him all he
needed to know. The entire south end of town had caught fire. The blacksmith
shop, the bank, and six family homes—including his.
Shame and regret came along with the pain of loss. That
damnable letter had arrived last fall. It was there waiting for him when he
returned to Montana with the herd of cattle he’d driven in from Nebraska.
Recognizing her handwriting, he hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t known how he’d react to
anything she had to say. It wasn’t until Christmas, in the dead of winter, when
no letter from home arrived, no holiday greeting from his family, that he opened
Ester’s letter.
Then he’d had to wait until the weather broke before making the
trek all the way to Iowa, as well as find someone to take care of the herd and
the ranch, and all the while he tried to prepare for all he’d find here.
“Brett?”
He turned, and the burning in his throat increased.
“Jesse.”
“I knew it was you, Brett,” his younger brother said. “I saw
you ride past the feed store. You looked so much like Pa I couldn’t move for a
minute or two.”
Words were stuck in the fire in Brett’s gullet, so he simply
stepped forward, folded his arms around his brother’s shoulders. The hug helped,
on the inside for sure, and when he stepped back, he ruffled the black hair on
Jesse’s head. “You’ve grown, kid.”
Jesse shrugged and shifted his gangly legs. “I was only ten
when you left.”
Brett nodded, but had to turn as the
want him all over again didn’t change anything. Five years ago she’d given him
the ultimatum. Her or Montana. He’d taken Montana.
* * *
Cursing himself up one side and down the other, Brett
swung into the saddle and spun the horse around. He kneed it hard enough to leap
into a run, putting much needed distance between him and Ester. One look had
told him all he needed to know. She was as stubborn as ever, and kissing her was
about the stupidest thing he could have done. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself.
Seeing those flower-blue eyes, the perfect—kissable—curve of her lips, the fine,
corn silk—yellow hair that floated around her sweet little face and down her
shoulders is all it had taken.
Her hair had always been as soft as rabbit fur. She’d laughed
when he’d told her that once. Said she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or
not.
That memory did bring a smile to Brett’s face. He’d tanned a
rabbit hide after her comment and sewn it into a little bag himself, with one of
his mother’s darning needles, complete with a drawstring on the top, and given
it to Ester for her fifteenth birthday.
She’d treasured that bag, and he wondered if she still had it.
Probably not. When he’d left Cutter’s Corner five years ago she’d told him if he
rode away she’d forget he ever existed, and that most likely meant getting rid
of anything that might remind her of him.
A hard knot formed in his stomach and his lips grew tight, even
though they still tingled—no, burned—from kissing her. He’d asked her to come
with him to Montana, but she’d refused. Said if he loved her, he’d stay here.
Well, he wasn’t going down that road again. His love for her wasn’t the issue.
She was the one that didn’t love him. Not enough to leave Cutter’s Corner
anyway. She didn’t love anyone that much. He’d been given proof of that a few
minutes ago, when she said her parents had moved, but she hadn’t.
The horse had set their course, and now it stopped. Brett
glanced over his shoulder, confirming he had ridden right through the center of
town, all the way to the south end, where nothing but empty lots lay before him,
spring grass covering the ground.
He climbed down, walked forward to where his parents’ house had
been. Not so much as a burnt footing said that anything used to sit here, that
people used to live here. His throat swelled and his eyes stung, and he shut his
lids, his mind rereading the letter Ester had sent him. It had told him all he
needed to know. The entire south end of town had caught fire. The blacksmith
shop, the bank, and six family homes—including his.
Shame and regret came along with the pain of loss. That
damnable letter had arrived last fall. It was there waiting for him when he
returned to Montana with the herd of cattle he’d driven in from Nebraska.
Recognizing her handwriting, he hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t known how he’d react to
anything she had to say. It wasn’t until Christmas, in the dead of winter, when
no letter from home arrived, no holiday greeting from his family, that he opened
Ester’s letter.
Then he’d had to wait until the weather broke before making the
trek all the way to Iowa, as well as find someone to take care of the herd and
the ranch, and all the while he tried to prepare for all he’d find here.
“Brett?”
He turned, and the burning in his throat increased.
“Jesse.”
“I knew it was you, Brett,” his younger brother said. “I saw
you ride past the feed store. You looked so much like Pa I couldn’t move for a
minute or two.”
Words were stuck in the fire in Brett’s gullet, so he simply
stepped forward, folded his arms around his brother’s shoulders. The hug helped,
on the inside for sure, and when he stepped back, he ruffled the black hair on
Jesse’s head. “You’ve grown, kid.”
Jesse shrugged and shifted his gangly legs. “I was only ten
when you left.”
Brett nodded, but had to turn as the
Similar Books
