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  She opened the door and sunlight streamed through.

  Sometime in the night he’d returned her plate. It nestled in an emerald tuft of long grass just to the right of the door. He must have even washed it; the tin glinted dully. And square in the middle rested a handful of crimson poppies.

  Her gaze whipped to his bedraggled camp. He sat in his usual spot, one booted foot resting on a knee, a book wedged in the V. She waited for him to look at her, as he always did, but this time his attention remained firmly on the page.

  Carefully she scooped up the bouquet. The stems were ragged, as if they’d been torn instead of cut; the colors, extravagant. She lifted them to her nose, and the scent was strong and sweet, a dozen times more concentrated than flowers grown in more sheltered conditions, and her head went light.

  With the fragrance, she told herself. Only with the fragrance.

  Chapter 5

  He should have known better.

  Jake’s life had been jammed with incontrovertible evidence that giving into temptation—at least for him—was the first step toward absolute disaster.

  And yet he’d done it anyway. It seemed a small thing, to give her the flowers. He’d nearly squashed a clump of them on his evening run and had grabbed a bunch out of sheer, mindless impulse. It seemed the least he could do, after she’d trotted over bearing supper, the best he’d eaten in a very long time.

  But now she seemed to consider him a friend. She stepped outside, waved cheerfully in his direction, and kept flapping until he flicked a finger in acknowledgment just to get her to stop. It was the barest of salutes, but she beamed at him like a mother witnessing her toddler’s first step.

  It wouldn’t do. They couldn’t be friends. He didn’t have friends, period. Didn’t even want them. And most of all, he couldn’t be friends with her. That way lay certain disaster; he was surer of it than he’d ever been of anything.

  She was as slender as a willow slip, and when the wind gusted, blowing her dress against her, he half expected her to sway before it, curving gracefully low to the ground like the grass.

  Summer had sunk deeply into Montana, searing the tips of the grass, and now the late afternoon sunlight caught those tips, gold over green. The same sunlight caught her hair, washed gold over the warm brown as well.

  She moved out into the yard, and he noticed the hoe she held in her hand. The thing was almost as tall as she was, and he wondered what she had planned now. It was too late in the season to plant much of a garden; winter came too early here. Probably she didn’t know that, though.

  He’d spent so much time in the chair facing her front door that the seat had practically molded to his butt. Figuring this new development might be worth his full attention, he tipped his open book against his belly and laced his fingers over it.

  She was walking with her head down in concentration, as if looking for something, crisscrossing the space. Finally she glanced back and forth between her spot and the shack, as if checking her position, and lifted the hoe high over her head.

  Metal glinted in the sunlight. She put all her slight weight into it and swung down in a wicked arc.

  The hoe bit, sliced into the hard earth, and caught. She, however, kept right on moving, pitching right down with a yelp.

  He came half out of his chair. But she popped right back up, glaring at the hoe as if to intimidate it into cooperation. She whacked dust off her skirts and grabbed the tool again.

  He forced himself to plop back down. Obviously she wasn’t hurt. And really, what had he planned to do? Help her?

  Her second stroke went slightly better; she only ended up on her knees that time. And instead of a yelp, she burst out with a word he’d have sworn didn’t reside in Emily Bright’s vocabulary.

  He figured she’d last fifteen minutes at the task. Half an hour at the outside.

  Six hours later, they were both still there. Oh, she’d managed to shear the prairie grass off a plot of ground the size of a bathtub. At that rate, she’d have a space big enough for a pumpkin patch by the first of September.

  He wasn’t sure whether to admire her perseverance or pity her sheer stupidity.

  His stomach rumbled, for she’d worked right through suppertime, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to sit there stuffing himself while she grubbed away.

  Although she hadn’t, the sun had quit an hour ago. Now she was a pale wraith in the rising moonlight, an industrious ghost with her skirts fluttering around her ankles.

  An exhausted ghost. You needn’t have spent the last two weeks watching her to recognize the signs. She no longer dragged the hoe above her waist. Her hair had come undone hours ago and drooped around shoulders that sagged just as visibly.

  What the hell was she doing? It had ceased to amuse him about an hour in. Now it annoyed him. He wanted her gone; he didn’t want her dead.

  She dragged the hoe up one more time. And then she wavered, unsteady as a drunk after a week-long binge, and collapsed.

  He waited for her to spring back up as she’d done a dozen times already. But she lay still, her small figure almost lost in the high grass.

  He jumped up so fast the chair toppled and he sprinted over to her. He dropped to his knees. Her face was turned away from him, her eyes closed. He lay his fingers against her neck, groped for a heartbeat while his breath snagged in his throat.

  He found her pulse, surprisingly strong and steady. Blowing out a breath, he sat back on his heels.

  Okay. Alive, then. Just fainted dead away. What now?

  A week ago—a day ago—his first instinct would surely have been just to retreat to his own camp. She’d come to soon enough, and finding herself lying outside on the remnants of a truly pitiful excuse for an afternoon’s work might make her finally recognize what foolishness she’d embarked on.

  For some reason he’d rather not examine right now, he couldn’t do that. But damned if he was going to take care of her.

  None too gently he nudged her in the shoulder. “Wake up.” When she didn’t respond he gave her a brisk shake. “Wake up!”

  Her eyes fluttered open. She blinked up at the night sky, and then her gaze slid to meet his.

  “You fainted.”

  “I most certainly did not faint.” She gave herself a shake, like a hen smoothing ruffled feathers, and sat up.

  “No? What would you call it then?”

  “I but took a moment to rest.” She lifted her chin, and moonlight bathed her, a milky radiance that, surprisingly, suited her every bit as well as sunshine. She’d never seemed a creature of the night. “And to admire the stars. It’s a lovely evening.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I never faint.”

  “You probably faint if a man mentions ‘legs’ in your presence.” He didn’t know why he hadn’t returned to his chair already. She was obviously fine, if utterly exhausted. And he shouldn’t be prodding her, not when she’d retort so predictably. Though entertainingly.

  “Ha!” She dusted her hands together. “I’ve assisted in three amputations in the last four years, and it was my job to cart away the stump. I bet you’d turn green at the first slice.”

  No he wouldn’t, because nothing short of chains and a stockade could keep him in the same room with a doctor set on sawing. The very idea sent acid sloshing in his stomach. “Yeah, you look like a field surgeon. Don’t know why I didn’t note it right off.”

  She pulled up her knees and tucked her arms around them, looking every bit as comfortable sitting on her rump in the middle of the prairie as she must entering a ballroom on the arm of some over-bred gentleman with oiled hair and a good chunk of Daddy’s money. “I’ve done very little fieldwork, that’s true. But my brother-in-law was a doctor. Quite a famous one, when it comes right down to it, so much so that people would suffer his, well, less-than-compassionate demeanor to gain access to his skills.” She smiled with more than a trace of nostalgia. “I always thought he considered it extremely inconvenient that fascinating diseases came att
ached to actual people. He was no fonder of me, truth be told, but once he discovered I was useful he tolerated me well enough. The patients were more tractable when I was there, and so it wasn’t long before he kept me at his side even more than I would have chosen of my own accord. And that would have been a lot.” There seemed no halting her chatter once she got going. And he wondered why he hadn’t tried to shut her up yet. “It was fascinating, every moment of it. But I wouldn’t have lasted a day were I the fainting type.”

  They shouldn’t be having a conversation. Not that her rambling was actually a conversation. But he had little doubt she’d be working on getting him to do his fair share of the talking pretty darn soon.

  He didn’t want to know any more about her. Didn’t want to admire her in any way. It made waiting, hoping for her to fail distasteful.

  She tilted her head, studied him in a way that made him want to duck and shift away from her scrutiny. As if she might see things he needed to keep hidden.

  “Are you smiling? That beard makes it hard to tell.”

  He nearly reached up to touch his face, checking if he was. “I don’t smile,” he said with a snarl, hoping against hope it would slam the topic shut, dreading his firm suspicion that it would do the exact opposite.

  “Never?” He’d expected pity in her expression, steeled himself against it. Figured it would piss him off enough to catapult them back to their respective corners where they should have stayed in the first place. No matter how hard he searched, though, all he could find was bubbling curiosity. And puzzled surprise, as if she’d never conceived of such a creature. “But—”

  “Come on.” He got up, kept himself from extending his hand to assist her by dint of more effort than he would have liked. “You’ve had a long day. Last thing you need is to sit around out here talkin’. You should get some food, some rest, before you keel over again.”

  “I did not faint!”

  Why in a merciful God’s name hadn’t a man been the one to take over his claim? They could have a nice, civilized brawl over the rights; he could send the fella on his way and be done with it.

  “Fine. You didn’t faint.” Anything to get her off the ground and into the shack. “Quitting time anyway.”

  “Not exactly.” She climbed to her feet, swayed a bit—which he knew damn well she would have denied—and reached down to gather her tools. “I’m not done.”

  “Oh, you’re done all right.” The moonlight accentuated the shadows on her face, as if the night itself had painted the deep purple hollows beneath her eyes, her cheekbones. “You’re done in.”

  “I’m fine.” She weighed the tools in her hands, decided on the shovel. She rammed it into the earth and managed to wedge it in maybe an inch. “I’ve a schedule, you see. I’ve repaired the house, and now it’s time to clear the land. I figured it all out, how much I’d need to turn each day in order to be finished by my proving-up date, factoring in a reasonable amount of weather delays, and paced it all off. I have to finish the day’s allotment to stay on schedule.”

  He stared at her, openmouthed. She truly didn’t look insane. He’d spent weeks unloading murderously heavy cargo and he knew good and well he couldn’t clear the land himself by spring. “Most people just pay someone with a team and plow to clear it for them.”

  “Can’t afford it.” She put her foot on the upper edge of the shovel, hopped up and down as if her slight weight would force it in.

  “Doesn’t seem to me that you’ll be able to afford paying the prove-up fee then, either.”

  “Something’ll come up by next spring,” she told him.

  “Then something’ll come up to let you pay for the clearing.”

  She abandoned the shovel. It stayed where it was, blade half buried in the ground, handle sticking straight up like a signpost: “Foolish Easterner here.” “I intend to be prepared either way.” She bent, returning to the hoe. Slender as a reed, limned in moonlight. She’d lost weight since she’d arrived, not that she’d had much to spare. This place did that to a woman. A knowledge he lived…no, survived with, every day.

  “That’s it.” He snatched the hoe, cocked his arm, and sent the tool hurtling into the dark night like a spear. “You’re done.”

  “Now look what you’ve done.” She marched in the direction in which the hoe had disappeared.

  “Damn it!” He caught her in two strides. She yelped as he scooped her up, her arms flailing weakly.

  “Put me down.”

  “Show me you’ve got enough energy to fight back and maybe I’ll think about it.”

  She didn’t even try, just looked up at him with big, moon-shadowed eyes. The curve of her hip pressed against his belly. The side of her breast lay softly against his chest. Her head fell back, her hair brushing against his chin on the way, and her scent rose to him, feminine, new.

  Need exploded. Not want, not desire, not simple longing. Need. Unwanted, unsuspected, so absent from his life as to be utterly foreign to him. Something he’d never expected, never wanted, to feel again. Something he’d no right to feel again.

  And so he dropped her. Right on her rump.

  She yelped, lifted one hip to massage her butt, and glowered up at him.

  “All right then,” he said. “If you’re not bright enough to know when to quit, I’m not going to force you.”

  “Good,” she snapped. “That’s what I wanted from the beginning.”

  “Here’s what I don’t understand, though.” She pushed herself up, cute, bruised butt pointing sky-ward before she straightened, and he jammed his hands in his pockets. “You manage to charm men into doing just about everything else for you. Joe Blevins into lugging you water when he fetches his own. Longnecker into helping you choose your claim. Mr. Biskup into bringing you grouse whenever he goes hunting—didn’t think I noticed that, did you? So why the hell don’t you just keep playing the fragile female card and get some poor sap to do this for you, too? A few smiles, a few of those glances from beneath your lashes, and you’ve got a cleared field. Easy.”

  She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as if she’d so many words to spew out that they’d jammed up together and she couldn’t force out just one at a time.

  “Or maybe that’s what you’re up to right now,” he went on ruthlessly. “Maybe you figured on me. That’s what the free dinner, the dramatic swoon were for. I’d be a challenge, right? See if you can get the guy who wants you gone to be the one to help you stay?”

  Her eyes darkened, snapping with the first true anger he’d seen in her. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “Maybe.” Or maybe not. But now that he gave the matter some consideration, she sure did have a way of finding people to run to her assistance. Maybe it wasn’t as calculated as he claimed, maybe not even conscious, but it was the end result that told the tale, wasn’t it? “Yeah, I do.”

  Her hands fisted at her sides. Simmering anger rolled off her in waves. And hurt, which pricked in his chest though he tried his very best to ignore it.

  And then, in the blink of an eye, it all disappeared when she smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Thanks?” he asked, effectively blindsided.

  “Yes, thank you. For if I ever had any doubts about this venture,” she told him, “any question about whether I’d succeed or not, you, Mr. Sullivan, just gave me so much incentive as to absolutely ensure that I will.”

  The sun rose early and bright, bathing the inside of Jake’s white canvas tent in clean light. Jake awoke late, aroused, painfully hard, and thinking of her.

  He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut while his head pounded; for a moment he forgot that he didn’t drink anymore, it felt so much like he was coming off a three-day binge.

  And then he remembered. Good going, Jake old boy. He didn’t know why he ever presumed he could deal with women. His most considered plans always went awry, and last night’s had hardly been considered.

  He’d wanted her furious. So furious she wouldn’t be tempted to tr
ot over to visit him with sweet brown biscuits and a sweeter smile. Oh, she was mad all right, good and mad. But she wasn’t going anywhere.

  And the worst part was, the very first thought in his head when he’d swum up out of a restless, dark-dreamed sleep, was that he wanted her.

  That was bad. Really bad. Extremely bad. Especially when added to that potent, blinding burst of need when he’d touched her.

  It wasn’t right. Over the past year he’d come to the conclusion that that part of himself had died with Julia. There’d been women sometimes, in the saloons he’d practically lived in, who’d made it perfectly clear that they’d be happy to help him drown his sorrows in other ways than draining a bottle—though they were right fond of that method themselves. He’d never been one bit tempted, felt nothing but vague, woozy revulsion.

  It’d been right, he figured, to lose that part of himself. He deserved it. Why should he ever experience pleasure again, when Julia wouldn’t? She was his wife, his heart, his love. It was only fitting that so much of him remained hers, always.

  But now, unexpectedly, his physical needs had stirred. Stirred? Hell. Erupted. It was wrong, so damn wrong. And far too likely to happen again.

  So he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d do what he should have done the first day and get rid of her. Then, it had appeared easier and cheaper to wait her out. He had time.

  But not any longer. For as long as she was so nearby, sleeping in the bed he’d made, the bed that he’d shared with his wife, he was in danger of doing something he’d never forgive himself for.

  And he had a plenty long list of those things already.

  “Here.”

  Emily focused blurrily on the hand Mr. Sullivan had shoved in her direction the instant she’d stumbled out of bed to open the door.