A young man, maybe late twenties, sat tall in the saddle like he’d been born there. His horse was a bay gelding that looked like it ate better than most people. His tack was fine, his boots were polished, and his hat sat on his head like a crown that didn’t know it was a crown.
He reined in at the edge of her clearing and stared.
Not at the trees. Not at the weather.
At her.
At the hammer in her hand.
At the swell of her belly.
At the cabin frame rising behind her like a dare.
He touched the brim of his hat, as if remembering manners.
“Ma’am.”
His voice carried the easy drawl of the West with an edge of education she’d heard back East.
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