She forced herself to smile up at him. He was taller and leaner than Mason, his palms callused where Mason’s were smooth and soft. “You always seem to be protecting me,” she said. “Don’t you get tired of that?”
“Some things are worth protecting.”
Hanna swallowed the lump in her throat. She had no words for an honest reply. Instead she tried to focus on the tender music of the waltz and the footwork of the dance. But a tingle of awareness grew from where his hand rested against her corseted waist. The subtle scent of his skin stole through her senses. She felt safe in his arms—so safe that she found herself wishing the music would go on all night. But it was already drawing to an end.
The musicians finished the tune and put down their instruments for a break. As the dance floor cleared, Blake gave her his arm and led her toward the spot where Lillian and Stefan waited. “Will you be all right?” he asked, and she knew he was thinking about Mason coming back.
“Yes. My friends should be ready to leave soon.” She looked up at him. “Thank you. I owe you a longer dance.”
“Another time. Be careful, Hanna. I mean it.”
He turned and walked away.
* * *
Lingering among the crowd, Blake watched as Hanna left with the Reisners. She looked so grown-up tonight, he thought, and so beautiful with that deep blue dress and her hair tied up with a matching ribbon. Of course, he hadn’t told her so. A compliment might have given her the wrong impression. When he’d strode onto the dance floor, he’d been set on rescuing the girl, not courting her. He hoped his manner had made that clear.
But his business wouldn’t be finished until he’d confronted Mason.
He waited until Hanna had gone. Then he left the circle of wagons and walked out to where he’d noticed Mason’s buggy. He could see Mason’s cigarette tip glowing in the shadows. The dressing-down he planned to give his brother was bound to be ill received. But it needed to be done.
As Blake approached, Mason tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot heel. “You were out of line, brother,” he said.
Blake stepped closer, keeping his voice low, his instincts alert. Mason had a hair-trigger temper. When it exploded, anything could happen. “You were the one out of line, Mason,” he said. “Manhandling that girl on the dance floor, holding her against you like that.”
“Hell, she was enjoying it. Believe me, I could tell.”
“I saw her face. She was scared. All she wanted was to get away.”
“So you rode to her rescue like a knight on a damned white horse.” Mason guffawed. “Blake Dollarhide, defender of purity!”
“This isn’t funny, Mason. You can’t treat an innocent young girl like Hanna the way you might treat one of those dance-hall floozies in Miles City.”
“Innocent?” Mason’s impudent grin broadened to a smirk. “If that’s what you think, I’ve got news for you, brother. As far as sweet little Hanna is concerned, that ship has already left the dock.”
Blake stared at him, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut.
“She was all over me,” Mason said. “Just begging for it, grinding her hips, grabbing at my crotch. I tell you, man, I couldn’t get it into her fast enough.”
Blake only punched him once—but it was almost hard enough to break his fist.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SUN-MELLOWED DAYS OF OCTOBER HAD FLED. NOW A COLORLESS November sky hung over fields of frost-silvered brown stubble.
Above snow-dusted foothills, the peaks were blanketed in white.
Cattle on the ranches clustered for warmth and protection. Horses grew shaggy coats as the days shortened and the cold weather closed in.
Thanks to the wood from the lumber mill, the Anderson shack was as well fortified as the family could make it. A sturdy plank door with a sliding bolt had replaced the cowhide that had hung over the opening. Timbers had been added to the roof to keep it from collapsing under the weight of snow. The single window had a hinged wooden shutter, and a thick layer of straw covered the floor. More straw had been stuffed into every possible crack and opening. On the windward side of the house, an extra layer of tar paper had been added to the inner wall.
But even with a fire in the small iron stove, and layers of clothing on her body, the warmth was barely enough to keep Hanna’s teeth from chattering as she crawled out from under the quilts, leaving the younger children asleep. It was her job to help her mother make breakfast for the family—hot oatmeal porridge with a little milk that Lars had bought from a neighbor who had a cow.
It was still dark outside. Lars and Alvar had gone out to break the ice on the water barrel, feed, water, and hitch up the horses, and bring in wood for the stove. After breakfast they’d both be gone for the rest of the day, Lars to help a neighbor with his house and Alvar to work the closing shift at the lumber mill ahead of the coming snow. Hanna would spend time teaching the younger children their reading, writing, and arithmetic. Maybe next year they’d be able to attend school in Blue Moon. But this winter there would be no way to get there.
Standing by the stove, savoring its warmth, Hanna stirred the porridge with a big wooden spoon. The sight of the gooey, gray mass turned her stomach. Even the pasty smell made her want to gag. She didn’t want to eat. All she really wanted to do was crawl back under the quilt and sleep. She’d been so tired the past few weeks, as if the energy had been sucked out of her body. And no amount of rest seemed to make any difference.
The men came inside, pulling off their worn woolen gloves, their faces reddened with cold. They added milk to their bowls, spooned the warm oatmeal into their mouths, and washed it down with steaming black coffee. As was usual, they didn’t do much talking, but Alvar’s gaze, concerned and questioning, met Hanna’s across the table, as if he’d already guessed what she only suspected. She turned away, unable to keep looking at him.
Breakfast done, they went out again. Hanna listened as the sounds of their leaving faded away. Her body felt an urgent need for the privy, but she had waited to excuse herself until the men were gone.
Wrapping herself in a knitted shawl, she spoke a word to her mother and slipped out the door, closing it swiftly to keep the precious heat from escaping. A wall of icy wind struck her, stinging her face, whipping her hair and skirts. She staggered backward, then pushed ahead, around the house to where the outhouse stood, set back about twenty paces.
If the trek was a struggle now, what would it be like in the snow—with wolves on the prowl? Hanna shuddered as she latched the door from the inside and sat in darkness, on the frigid seat. The rank odors flooded her senses, making her stomach roil. She’d finished and stepped out when the nausea hit her, doubling her over as her stomach heaved.
As her head cleared, she made her way as far as the barrel, where she dipped water to splash her face and hands. By the time she reached the door and stepped into the house, her damp skin felt frozen. She pulled a chair close to the stove and sank onto it, exhausted.
The younger children were still asleep. Inga was setting the table for their breakfast. Hanna forced herself to stand. “I can do that, Mama,” she said. “Let me help you.”
“No, sit down. Get warm first. You look pale.” Inga studied her daughter with narrowed eyes. She glanced at the sleeping children. Then, setting the bowls on the table, she walked close to Hanna and spoke in a low voice. “When did you last bleed, kära?”