Ruth and Caleb Kincaid had left her in charge of their boys. Ruth trustingly. Caleb warily. More than anything, Jane wanted to justify Ruth’s faith in her and to win Caleb’s trust. How else could she make herself indispensable around the Kincaid ranch? If Zeke came to harm while in her care, she might find herself on the next train back to Boston, or perhaps hired to ply some unspeakable trade at the Double Deuce Saloon.
“I’m sorry, Zeke. I’m responsible for your safety. I’ll have to ask you to stay in the house with me until your folks get back.”
“Aw!” The boy thrust his hat back on its peg, but kept his buckskin jacket on. “I ain’t a baby like Barton. I’ve been going where I please around this ranch as long as I can recollect. Two years ago I ran off and joined the Cheyenne.”
If Zeke expected such a boast would impress Jane into setting him at liberty, he miscalculated.
“I’m sorry, Zeke.” He seemed like a good boy. If she denied him and he came to resent her presence, what chance was there that his father and stepmother would keep her around? “I could use your help while Ruth is gone. Barton doesn’t know who I am, and I haven’t got any idea where to find things. I’d be much obliged if you’d stay close by to advise me.”
He heaved a great sigh that reminded Jane of Mrs. Endicott when she finally submitted to the tiresome necessity of taking her pills. “I suppose I can hang around till Pa gets back. Best advice I can give you—if Barton starts to cry again, try sitting with him in the rocking chair.”
“Thank you, Zeke. I’ll remember that.”
Just to impress upon her that he was obeying under protest, the boy stalked off to another part of the house. Later Jane heard loud banging noises from upstairs, but she didn’t have the courage to go investigate what he might be up to.
Not that she had the opportunity, for Barton kept her well occupied. As long as she sat in the rocking chair, talking or singing to him, he was perfectly contented. And he would tolerate being held in Jane’s arms while she walked through the house, wistfully taking note of all the chores she could be doing to impress the Kincaids with her industry.
If she set him down, though, the baby would suck in more air than his small body seemed capable of holding. Then he would release it at high volume with a distressing infusion of tears. The sound of his crying made Jane’s insides contract and the muscles between her shoulders bunch up tight.
What was that smell? Something burning?
Ignoring Barton’s shrieks, Jane popped him into his high chair and checked the stove. The savory concoction of beef and beans had begun to scorch on the bottom of the pot. Jane stirred it several times.
Was it her imagination, or did she smell the tang of sourdough working?
A quick glance in the warming tray revealed a number of loaf pans covered with damp dish towels. Had they risen sufficiently? Was the oven hot enough to bake them? Back in Boston, Mrs. Endicott’s cook had prepared all the meals. Jane wished she’d shown more curiosity about culinary matters.
She could always leave the dough and later claim not to have known it was there. But by then it might have overflowed the pans and made a sticky mess all over the bottom of the warming tray. She owed Ruth better service than that.
Desperately hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane lifted the pans down and set them in the oven. Then she dug in the wood box for a couple of good-size sticks to stoke the fire.
“Hush, Barton, hush. I’m coming.” She hoisted the squalling baby back out of his chair and bounced him on her hip until she feared her cracked ribs would break for sure. Did something else ail the little fellow besides missing his mother? Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired?
The Kincaids had been right not to hire her in the first place. What had made her think she could look after a baby when she had almost no experience, only a pack of romantic daydreams about motherhood?
Jane collapsed into the rocking chair and snuffled back tears of sympathy for young Barton. And despair for herself.
The new filly shied away from John Whitefeather’s approach. The last shreds of patience slipped from his grasp like a greased rope. He’d tried a number of his most reliable techniques on the tetchy beast and she still wouldn’t let him near—not even to feed from a bucket of oats he held.
Finally he let her out into the paddock with Hawkwing and Zeke’s pony, Windsinger. Maybe they would let the filly know he was a man a horse could trust.
When his stomach gave a loud growl, John realized the time had gotten away from him. That often happened when he threw himself into gentling a particularly reluctant horse. Still, he could always count on his sister to drag him into the ranch house for meals.
But Ruth had gone with Caleb to tend young Cicero Price, and there was no sign of them back yet. Just then, John remembered Caleb’s parting words to him.
“Keep an eye on that Harris gal, will you? Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about that gal I don’t trust.”
“Better late than never,” John muttered to himself as he headed for the ranch house. How much mischief could she have gotten into since breakfast? Even if she was the mischievous type—which John doubted. “I could use a cup of coffee and something to eat, anyway.”
The minute he walked through the kitchen door, the smell of burned food overpowered John’s nose, while the piercing howls of his infant nephew all but deafened him. The room looked like an orange Kansas twister had just blown through it.
A strange, frantic sensation tightened the flesh of John’s throat as his eyes swept the kitchen, looking for Jane Harris. Had she run off or locked herself in her room, leaving the boys to fend for themselves?
In front of the oven, a disheveled figure straightened up and set a loaf pan on the counter. The aroma of fresh bread almost battled the stench of burned beans. Three more times Jane Harris bent and straightened, like some kind of wading bird bobbing for food. Then she closed the oven door and rescued Barton from his chair.
As she stood there clutching the bawling baby, John thought he’d never seen such a pathetic looking creature in his life. The injuries to her face still had some healing to do, and her warm brown hair straggled from a once-neat roll at the nape of her neck. Her dainty green dress, better suited to a garden party than a Montana ranch, was spattered with gobs of bright orange, as was her face. She shrank from his gaze as though she expected John to draw a six-shooter and gun her down.
As Barton’s cries quieted, she spoke. “I don’t think the bread is ruined.”
She made it sound like a single hard-won victory in a day of disastrous defeats. For reasons he could not explain or justify to himself, John Whitefeather began to chuckle and then to laugh.
“This isn’t funny!” The terrified look left her eyes, replaced by a rather becoming flicker of fury. “I’ve tried my best, but everything’s just gone from bad to worse, and I can’t get a blessed thing done when I have to hold the baby every blessed minute.”
When a frightened filly had her back to the wall, often she would rear or buck, rather than cower. The Boston gal put John in mind of such a horse. And she wasn’t done yet.
“He spit out every spoonful of mashed carrots I tried to feed him. His brother’s off tearing the house apart nail by nail for all I know. Any minute, Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are going to arrive home and put me on the next train back to Boston. If they don’t decide it’s cheaper just to throw me to the wolves!”
For an instant John feared the woman was going to burst into hysterical tears. Instead, she glanced around the kitchen and down at her carrot-dappled dress, then began to laugh with an edge of frenzy.
Two swift strides brought John close to her. When he held out his arms for his nephew, she surrendered the child without any pretense of reluctance.
John