Second-Chance Bride (Dakota Brides Book 3)(19)

Ward chuckled. “I hope you don’t figure to learn to do all that today.”

She laughed.

They reached her house and stopped at her door. Milo and Kit had run to the chicken yard to watch the hens scratching about.

“Come on, boys,” Ward called. “Time to go home.” He faced Freyda. “I’ll come by in the morning for you.”

All she could do was nod.

“Good night.” Whistling, he strode toward home, the two boys running ahead of him.

“Good night,” Freyda managed to whisper, knowing he wouldn’t hear her. She dashed out to shut the chickens in. Checked to make sure the horses had water then raced into the house and set water to heat for her bath.

She smiled as she shook out her blue satin dress.

Church had never seemed to inviting.

Her hands fell idle. It was only because she couldn’t get there on her own. Only because she enjoyed the company. And had a fondness for two little boys She had her goals set out before her and would not let anything interfere.

She would not allow her plans for the future to be sidetracked by Milo and Kit’s handsome father.





5





After the boys were in bed, Ward spent several hours telling himself that taking Freyda to church was nothing out of the ordinary. Just as he’d told himself time and again that putting his arms around her to help her guide the horses had meant nothing. He would not be so foolish as to think she was different in every way from both his aunt and his dead wife.

Why did he have to keep repeating it? He believed it completely and wholly, yet his heart didn’t follow along as it should.

It had surprised him to be whistling and he tried to think when he had last done so. Aunt Myra objected to the sound. Dorothy had complained it made her head hurt. He’d restricted his whistling to times when he was far enough away from the house she couldn’t hear. After her death, he hadn’t felt like whistling.

But here he was driving the wagon to the Haevre place, whistling happily. Twice he forced himself to stop and twice discovered he whistled again.

“You happy, Papa?” Kit asked.

“Guess I am.”

“’Cause we’re going to church?”

“That’s part of the reason.”

Milo nudged Kit. “It’s ’cause he’s taking Mrs. Haevre to church.” He turned to Ward. “That’s okay, Papa, ’cause we like her too.”

Ward pressed his lips tight. His whistling had given the boys the wrong idea. No more whistling.

They reached the Haevre farm. He stopped at the door and jumped down.

Freyda stepped out. She wore a dress as blue as lake water. It make her eyes bluer than blue. Her blond hair peeked out from under a blue bonnet.

“You look very nice.” His tongue could hardly form the words.

She gave a little curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir. And may I say that you look very nice too.” Pink stained her cheeks and she looked at the boys rather than at him. “You two look nice too.”

The boys grinned and Milo nudged Kit. “Told you so.”

Ward stopped smiling and held his hand out to assist Freyda to the seat. He curled his fingers as he stepped away, capturing the warmth of her hand even though she wore spotless white gloves.

He climbed up beside her, the boys behind them, pressed to his shoulder. One glance back at them and he grinned. Their eyes were wide with admiration as they stared at Freyda.

“Sit down, boys, and we’ll be on our way.”

They sat, backs to the side of the wagon so they could keep their adoring gazes on Freyda.

He glanced at her, half expecting her cheeks would be pink from the way they studied her.

She carried a little drawstring bag and opened it. “I have an English Bible. I miss the familiarity of my Norwegian Bible, but I am determined to be American in every way.”

Milo leaned forward to speak to her. “You can’t be.”

“Why not?” She sounded curious, rather than offended.

“’Cause you were born in Norway. Papa, where was I born?”

When had either of the boys expressed so much interest in their past, or his past? “Milo, you were born in a little town in Ohio. Your mama and I lived there for a short while.” He knew Kit would be next. “Kit, you were born in Iowa. I worked for a farmer there. He told me all about free land in the Dakota Territory. Said if he didn’t have ten mouths to feed he would be staking out a homestead. ‘That’s what a young fella like you should do,’ he said. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity.’ I thought so too, so when Kit was a year old, we came west and here we are.”

The boys sat back, their attention caught by a hawk soaring overhead.

Freyda pointed. “Look at those animals. They aren’t deer. What are they?”

“Antelope,” Ward said. “Or more correctly, pronghorn. They can run up to ninety-five miles an hour, I’m told.”

“Who told you?” Milo asked, but Ward felt all three of the passengers waiting for his answer.

“An old hunter I met the first year I was out here.”

“What was his name? What did he look like?” Milo knelt behind Ward, quivering with interest.

Ward chuckled. “You boys will like this story. Trapper was big. I saw him lift a full-grown man like a sack of potatoes. He had a beard that he kept trimmed to here.” He held his hand three inches below his chin. “It was always clean and brushed. He was loud and his voice was as deep as thunder. When he spoke the rafters rattled. But he was a good, kind man.”