5

Grace was thankful for the display of pink clouds stretching across the sky in the evening dusk and pulled her shawl closer to her, folding her arms as she walked. She enjoyed taking walks after supper, listening to the sounds of the birds—which included an occasional eagle’s screech. It was about the only time she seemed to relax and allow herself to be surrounded by Montana’s beauty. Was it only last year she and her father took evening walks together after supper before retiring? Now walking had become difficult for him.

She squinted, scanning the sky for what appeared to be smoke in the distance. She couldn’t tell whether it was at the Hedricks’ farm or on her land, but she doubted it was hers. Her thoughts traveled back to earlier when they’d hired Mr. Frasier.

He looked muscular, from what she could tell, though he was trim. Most likely from the hard work of being a farmer. I shouldn’t be lingering on whether or not he looks masculine as long as he does his work here.

It was time she headed back down the path to the farmhouse. The light from the windows behind the curtains gave off an inviting, homey welcome along with the cottonwoods swaying nearby. She hoped when anyone neared her home, which wasn’t very often, they felt comfortable. If God had blessed her with children, this would be the time of evening she’d be getting them ready for bed. But that hadn’t happened, and she wondered if other women felt what she did—a deep desire for children to hold, sing to, nurture? Sighing, she wondered if Ginny’s advice to get out more was advisable. These days, she spent most of her time taking care of Pop. She’d skipped invitations to sewing circles or picnics at church, believing the farm work and taking care of her dad was a priority. She loved her pop and was fiercely devoted to him. Too much, some might say. But he was the only family she had, and the thought of losing him . . . well, it was too much to bear. A hoot owl’s call from a nearby pine tree echoed her sentiments.

Grace spied Robert Frasier walking up the lane to the house just as she reached for her bonnet before stepping outdoors to milk Bessie. He still had the same somber look on his face, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d look like with a smile. He must have a lot on his mind.

“Good morning, Mr. Frasier,” she said.

He tipped his hat. “Mornin’.”

They met in the middle of the yard and once again Grace observed his deep-set steely eyes beneath his bushy dark brows. He didn’t appear to have had much sleep. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. What do you want me to start with first?”

“Well, I’ve been plowing the furrows to plant the potato seeds but wasn’t able to finish. If you’ll follow me to the barn, we can hook Cinnamon up to the plow and get that completed.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lead the way.”

A blue-gray duck waddled over and followed next to Grace. “Mornin’, Bluebelle,” she said with a smile, and the duck quacked back a friendly greeting. “Meet Mr. Frasier.” Grace paused to look over to Robert. “Bluebelle is a special type of duck—a Blue Swede—that my dear friend, Ginny, ordered especially for me on my birthday. We’re hoping to get another duck to mate with her.” Grace felt her face burn hot at mentioning mating to an almost complete stranger. What must he think of me?

“She’s a beauty,” he said.

But Grace was aware he couldn’t care less about her Bluebelle. She hurried to open the large barn door, allowing bright morning sunlight to flood the dark interior. Cinnamon made a loud noise of hello when she saw them. Grace walked straight to her, pulling back the latch and entering the stall to lead her out. “Cinnamon, meet your new friend, Mr. Frasier.”

Robert strode up to her and stroked her jaw. “Yep, we’re going to get to know each other pretty well by day’s end, Cinnamon.”

His speaking to Cinnamon told Grace that he was kind to animals. He’d better be. Cinnamon had been her horse for a very long time. “If you’ll get the harness off the wall there”—Grace pointed to the tack on the far wall—“we can go outside and get her behind the plow and in the field.”

Grace paused with Cinnamon at the barn door, but when Robert came up from behind, the horse kicked him hard. He yelled, and a look of pain crossed his face. “What the—!” He glared at the horse and the duck squawked away, fluttering her wings.

“Oh my goodness! I can’t believe Cinnamon would do that!” Grace was shocked and rushed over to Robert, who was grimacing and leaning over to rub his calf. His straw hat fell off in the sawdust on the barn floor. “Are you all right? What can I do?” Grace snatched up his hat and handed it to him.

“I’ll live, but that horse of yours is not as gentle as I perceived.” Robert shook the sawdust from his hat with a tiny smile. “I reckon she’s not used to anyone but you?”

“I suppose, and I’m really sorry. Want me to take a look at your leg?” She already knew the answer, but felt she had to ask anyway.

“Nope. It’s just a bruise—I’m happy it wasn’t my head she kicked.”

“I don’t know why she did that, and I’m very sorry. Shall we continue?” Grace chewed her bottom lip and caught him staring at her. Probably wishes he’d never answered my ad. She knew how painful a kick from a horse could be, and she felt awful about it. “Why don’t you let me hook up the harness, and then you can plow? That way you won’t be anywhere near Cinnamon’s behind.”

“Suit yourself,” he answered.

———

When she was done, Robert nodded and reached for the plow handles, trying to hide the sharp pain in his calf. It wouldn’t do to let on about it or Grace would consider him weak and not fit to work on their farm.

He limped along toward the open field. The day was showing signs of being perfect, and he liked nothing better than to be outdoors. Birds twittered, then flew up to the trees with a worm or two to feed their little ones. Fluffy clouds overhead would keep the plowing cool—and he was grateful for that—but it did seem a bit odd to work alongside a lady he barely knew, much less take orders from her. He couldn’t help but wonder about her. Her voice nearby brought him back to the task at hand as she walked toward him.

“You can see where I started a few days ago, so you can pick up from where I left off.” She pointed at two long furrows of rich soil. Long lashes framed honey-colored eyes peering at him from beneath her spoon bonnet. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She seemed reluctant to move away.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then I’ll go get the seed potatoes I started last week from the cellar and start planting on the other two rows.” She turned toward the duck. “Come along, Bluebelle.”

He nodded and watched her walk away, Bluebelle’s webbed feet pattering behind her in a scene that was almost comical. But Grace didn’t seem to mind.

Robert was anxious to get started before the clouds parted and the sun beat down. He threw the leather straps across his shoulders and gave the reins a snap, saying, “Giddyup, Cinnamon.” Cinnamon moved forward and Robert followed, allowing the plow to cut a straight row through the rich earth.

He continued for a while, sharply aware that Grace had returned, basket in hand, bending and dropping potato starters, eye pointing upward in the dirt, then returning with a hoe to cover the long trenches with the plowed dirt. Once he paused to rest and glanced her way. He saw her straighten, placing her hands in the middle of her back to give it a stretch. Planting anything was hard work, and somehow he felt sorry for her.

She caught his eye, lifting her hand with a small wave. He smiled back, knowing she couldn’t see that from where she was, then finished the row he was on. It was nearly lunchtime and his stomach was growling. The children would have bread and beans from a can just as he’d packed in his knapsack. He hoped they would stay out of trouble. Tonight he planned on moving the camp a little closer so he wouldn’t have as far to walk the next morning. When he had enough money, he’d find a place in town. He hoped he could hold it all together until then.

Robert soon heard the dinner bell and looked up to see Grace at the back porch, tall and graceful, signaling it was lunchtime. He unhitched Cinnamon and turned her out to pasture before striding over to the house’s porch. “I’ll go retrieve my lunch and eat under a shade tree, ma’am,” he told her.

“Why, there’s really no need, Mr. Frasier. I’ve already made lunch. Pop said to invite you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll go rest under that big cottonwood,” he answered.

Her face fell, but she quickly gave him a smile. “Perhaps another time then.”

He tipped his hat to her, then walked in the direction where he’d left his knapsack. He had to admit, the smells from the kitchen were enticing.