To his greater surprise, she looked almost beautiful.
In the week since her arrival, the scrapes and bruises on her face had healed. Suddenly, John noticed.
Somewhere in that trunk of Marie Kincaid’s, Jane had found a riding habit. The cloth was a little rumpled in places, but the fitted black jacket showed off the curve of her bosom in a way that made the collar of John’s shirt tighten. A ruffle of white lace at the throat emphasized the daintiness of her features. She might not be as striking a beauty as Ruth or Lizzie or Abby, but she was every inch a lady.
A lady far more suited to the refined city life back East than to the vital, rough-edged existence in Big Sky Country. She was a woman who needed a wealthy, cultured gentleman to pamper her the way she deserved. With a sudden pang of regret, John realized he wasn’t doing her any favors by helping her fit in around the ranch. Sooner or later, she’d figure out this wasn’t the place for her.
Then she’d go away.
“I hope we won’t be keeping you from your work.” Her voice held a note of uncertainty, as though she was fishing for any excuse not to do this.
John thought about the maverick filly he’d privately dubbed Cactus Heart. “I haven’t got a single thing in the world I’d rather do than take my nephew for a ride.”
Barton clearly felt the same way. He held his stout little arms out to the horses and babbled with delight. John mounted the mare and reached down to lift the baby from Jane’s arms.
She let him go reluctantly. “You will keep a tight hold on him, won’t you? He squirms like the dickens when he gets excited.”
“I know that, ma’am. Been around this young fellow since the day he was born.” Somehow, John felt he should resent her protectiveness of his nephew. But he couldn’t work up a pinch of the feeling that usually overwhelmed him when he was dealing with white folks.
Her arms looked strangely empty without the baby in them.
“I’m sorry,” said Jane.
John had never met a person so quick to say those words. They usually stuck tight in his own craw.
“You’re right, of course,” she continued. “It’s just that he’s my responsibility and I’ve become very attached to him in the short time we’ve been together.”
John knew that, too. It showed in the way she held the boy. It glowed in her smile and warmed her words when she spoke to him. That soft, maternal quality flattered her appearance far more than all Marie Kincaid’s fancy clothes. Maybe that was why he found it impossible to resent her.
John Whitefeather had never been much given to smiling, and he didn’t smile now. But he cast Jane a look he hoped would reassure her.
“Don’t you fret about young Barton. I’m partial to the little rascal myself. I’ll see he doesn’t come to any harm.”
Too late, John realized Barton’s pretty nanny would need his help to mount the gelding.
So did she, by the look of it.
“You and Barton go ahead and ride. I’ll just watch from here.” Sounding more relieved than anything, she waved them on their way.
Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed one of the ranch hands approaching the corral.
“Can I be of service, ma’am?” Floyd Cobbs removed his hat. John didn’t think the fellow was much to look at, but by all accounts Floyd fancied himself a ladies’ man. “Help you onto that horse, maybe?”
John’s brows tightened into a scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on the Price boy, Floyd?”
“I’ve been watching him real close, boss.” The words were respectful enough. To John’s ears at least, the tone was anything but. “He’s having hisself a little siesta right now, so I thought I’d stretch my legs.”
The cowboy turned his attention back to Jane. “Pardon my manners, ma’am. I reckon we haven’t been properly introduced. Name’s Floyd Cobbs. I’ve been working the Kincaid spread for over three years now.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cobbs.” She didn’t sound pleased. In fact, John could have sworn she took a couple of small steps back, until the corral fence prevented her from retreating any farther. “M-my name’s Jane Harris. I’m just here for a short while to give Mrs. Kincaid a hand with the children and the house.”
She reminded John for all the world of a rabbit doe cornered by a weasel—skin paler than usual, movements twitchy.
A blaze of rage kindled deep in his belly, but John did his best to ignore it. The lady wasn’t in any real danger. And besides, he couldn’t look after every stray who crossed his path.
“Well, that’s real fine.” The cowboy eyed Jane slowly from the crest of her saucily veiled hat to the tips of her high button boots peeping out from beneath the skirt of her riding habit. “Maybe you’ll take a fancy to Whitehorn and decide to stay. If there’s one thing wrong with the state of Montana, it’s that we need more women.”
John fought the urge to scramble down from his horse and pummel the insolent cowboy. What right did he have, though? Miss Jane Harris was nothing to him.
“Perhaps.” She didn’t sound very certain. Was her little Western adventure beginning to pale already?
“What do you say, ma’am? Want me to help you into the saddle?” Floyd spoke the words in an innocent tone, but John thought he detected a mocking double meaning.
“T-thank you for the offer.” She eyed Floyd Cobbs as if he was a giant-size bedbug. “But I don’t believe I’ll ride today, after all.”
“Good enough, ma’am.” Floyd grinned and took another step toward her. “Then you and me can keep each other company here while Mr. Whitefeather trots young Kincaid around.”
Absorbed in watching Jane and the cowboy, and trying to sort out his unduly strong reaction, John didn’t notice Barton dig his fists into the mare’s mane and yank. The horse tossed her head and whinnied. If she’d been a couple of years younger, she might have reared.
“On second thought,” gasped Jane, “perhaps I’d better stay as close as possible to Barton, in case he gets himself in trouble.” She ducked past Floyd Cobbs and fled into the corral.
Jane stuck one foot in the gelding’s stirrup—the wrong foot—then grabbed hold of the saddle horn and tried to hoist herself up. She fell back into Floyd’s waiting arms.
“Careful there, little lady, you could hurt yourself.”
The way Floyd spoke the words little lady, as though they were some kind of endearment, set rage buzzing in John’s head like a swarm of bees.
“Set Miss Harris on her feet, Cobbs,” he rumbled, with all the menace of a death threat. “Then hustle yourself back to the bunkhouse to watch Price.”
“If she’d have let me help her mount in the first place, she wouldn’t have fell.” The cowboy hoisted Jane upright, his hands lingering on her far too long and far too intimately to suit John.
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” With an exaggerated bow and a parting scowl at John, Floyd Cobbs meandered back to the bunkhouse.
Jane stood pale and tremulous as an aspen leaf.
“Are you hurt?” John edged his horse toward her.
She forced a tight little smile that didn’t fool him for a second. “Only my dignity.”
“Can we try again, then? You take Barton back and I’ll lift you both into the saddle. Then you can pass him to me once I’ve mounted.”
“Well…”