LITMIR.BIZ

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by the desolation of the war.

      Jenny looked up at him, her dignity once more in place, only damp spots on her dress remaining of the tears she’d shed for the memory of her husband. “Will you stay the night?” she asked politely.

      “I can sleep in the barn.” He glanced out the window to where the shabby outbuildings were drenched in sunshine. “I have a bedroll, ma’am. Is there hay left in the loft?”

      “No, but there will be in a couple of days, once it dries in the field. The men are out there cutting it now.”

      “Can I give them a hand? I’ve done my share of swinging a scythe in my day.”

      “And where was that?” she asked, her eyes lighting with interest.

      “I was born and raised here in the south, ma’am.” And that would be enough for now, he decided, rising and reaching for his hat. “I’ll just ride my horse out to where the men are, and put in a few hours’ work. Maybe I’ll do enough to earn my supper.”

      “Wait,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll take you out in the wagon. Noah won’t know who you are.”

      “I’ll tell him,” Shay said politely. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

      And it was. Coming upon the three men, their heads covered with straw hats, their arms swinging in unison to the mournful notes they sang, he’d sat astride his stallion for long minutes. One of the younger men had noticed him first, glancing up, and then halting midswing. The older man, Noah probably, turned to face him, taking his hat off and nodding slowly.

      “Sir?” The tone was polite, yet wary, and Shay slid from his horse. A hundred feet or so separated them, and his steps were unhurried as he watched the three men.

      “I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”

      A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”

      Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”

      Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”

      Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”

      Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”

      “You wanta use the scythe or start rakin’?” Noah asked.

      Shay held out his hand. “I’ll give you a break. You can rake, if that’s all right.”

      Hand outstretched, he waited as the older man scrutinized him, and then, with a nod at his two helpers, walked the few steps it took to face Shay.

      “These here are my boys, Caleb and Joseph. Miss Isabelle’s my woman.” He held out the scythe and Shay took it from the callused hand.

      “I’ll just tie my horse,” he said. A glade of trees edged the hayfield on three sides, telling wordlessly how the field had been wrenched from the woods surrounding it. Shay led his horse into the shade and slid the bridle from his mouth and over his head, then reached into his saddlebag for a halter. He put it in place, adding a long lead line before he loosened the saddle cinch.

      “You can work at keepin’ the grass mowed,” he murmured to his stallion, leaving the animal knee-deep in lush greenery. The scythe fit his hand as if he’d only yesterday laid it down, and in moments he was adjusting his swing to the momentum of the other men. The sun beat down through his dark shirt and sweat beaded his brow, burning his eyes as it dripped from his forehead. Tying his kerchief around his brow relieved that situation, and he moved forward, enjoying the flex of muscles unused to the physical labor of harvest.

      For a while the singing stopped, and then Noah took it up again, timing his rake to the rhythm he set, his sons following suit. The scythe sliced hay smoothly, and Shay silently thanked whoever had spent long moments with a stone, sharpening its blade. The men surrounding him worked as a team, apparently accepting his presence.

      Shay thought of those he’d known, worked with, played poker with, then ridden away from during the past years. All the while heading back to where he’d lived as a boy. The ranch in Kansas had been the latest stopping place. Until circumstances had sent him on his way, and he was once more traveling. Finally with purpose.

      It was time, he’d decided. Time to face the past, time to find the woman and child Carl Pennington had spoken of. Maybe time to finally heed Carl’s plea. He’d never agreed to his friend’s request, but those dying words had haunted him for too long.

      Now, whatever he could do to help Carl’s wife, whether it be by the sweat of his brow, or the gold in his pocket, he’d do his best. The thought of Jenny, copper hair shimmering in the sunlight, brown eyes soft against his scarred face, was enough to make him eager for suppertime to arrive. And that thought caught him up short.

      He was here to help Carl’s widow, not take advantage of her. It would be easy to look on her as an available woman. Honesty nudged him to admit he already had. She might be available, but not to a man like Shay. He’d soiled his hands beyond redemption, and touching Jenny Pennington…His body hardened at the thought, and he swung the scythe with a jerk, spoiling the rhythm he’d set. It hit the ground and vibrated in his hand, and he halted, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the radiance.

      She was there, burned into his memory, waving locks of hair tempting his fingers, gentle eyes melting his defenses. And scattered across the fabric of her dress, luring his gaze to the curves defining her breasts, were tears she’d shed for Carl Pennington.

      Chapter Two

      Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.

      To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.

      Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.

      “Miss Jenny? What’re you doing?” Isabelle’s soft voice from behind her had Jenny rounding about quickly, her cheeks flaming.

      “Just looking after our guest,” she muttered.

      “Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”

      “He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”

      “There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”

      Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.

      “Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”

      “He

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