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

She pushed open the door, stepped into the house, and glanced around. It was much like the home Baruk had built for her. A roomy kitchen with a round table in one corner. The chairs were pushed in tight to the table. Something wasn’t quite right about them. It took a moment for her to realize the chairs were precisely the same distance apart, as if someone had used a measuring stick. She took a quick look at the rest of the room and saw that everything was so neat and clean, she wondered where the boys had eaten their meals. Shaking her head to dismiss the question, she glanced into the sitting room. Again, it lacked any evidence of children. No toys. No books. No dust. Nothing out of place. Three doors led off the room. Bedrooms, she supposed. She wouldn’t look. That was making herself too much at home.

It must be getting close to noon. Should she feed the boys?

She returned to the kitchen and opened a few cupboards. Everything was lined up like soldiers on parade. Mrs. Williams certainly was particular. This house looked like no one lived in it. Back home in Norway, children ran in and out of the houses of their parents, their aunts, and cousins. There was always noise and activity and evidence of projects on the go.

The narrow door by the cupboards led to the pantry and Freyda found bread and cheese. She’d make the boys sandwiches. They must be getting hungry. She half expected them to run through the door and say so. But, of course, they were shy, with her being a stranger and all.

She sliced the bread and made sandwiches then looked around for milk. She found none. Perhaps they stored it in the well. Never mind, they would make do with water. She went to the pump to fill a bucket. It was so quiet.

Her neck tensed. Mor always said too much quiet with children spelled trouble.

Freyda listened for the sound of boys at play. Nothing. Her skin prickled as she ran toward the barn. She dashed past it in the direction she’d last seen the pair and skidded to a halt when she saw Kit. He rocked back and forth, a keening sound coming from him.

But where was Milo?

Freyda’s gaze went the direction Kit’s did and her heart slammed into her ribs.

Milo clung to a chain swinging from the hayloft. The chain ran around a pulley and seemed to be held stable by a piece of wire. But should that wire give way…



On the trip to town, Ward couldn’t think past the way Mrs. Wright had been whipping Milo. His anger kept him silent for the entire trip. But after he left her at the home of her sister, the reality of his situation hit him. He’d been through several housekeepers, all progressively worse. He wouldn’t make his boys endure that again. But he couldn’t plow or seed without someone to take care of them. Maybe in another year he could manage them on his own, though they would not enjoy decent meals if he had to both farm and cook.

Mrs. Wright was correct when she said the boys were wild. He couldn’t leave them unsupervised. But there wasn’t another woman in Grassy Plains—spinster, married, or widowed—that he would trust his boys with. He accepted the truth—Milo and Kit would simply have to accompany him to the fields as he worked.

His knuckles cracked a protest to the way he squeezed his hands around the reins. The boys needed their mother, but she had died eighteen months ago. She’d never taken to the rigors of farm life and when she got the grippe, it seemed she just gave up. Even her boys weren’t enough to make her fight.

He pushed aside the regrets of his marriage and planned how he would take care of the boys without help. If only he could count on Milo to keep Kit safe. Milo had a dark streak through him. Ward blamed it on the disinterest his mother had shown in him and then the harshness of the caregivers Ward had found since Dorothy’s death.

His home came into view as he mulled over his problems. He cast an anxious eye about the place, trying to locate the boys. Or Mrs. Haevre. He saw none of them and flicked the reins to hurry the horses along. He stopped at the barn and jumped down, leaving the horses and wagon until later. Why did he hear nothing? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered the yard without the sound of the boys’ yelling, or the strident voice of Mrs. Wright or one of the women before her.

“Milo, Kit,” he called, and strained to hear an answer. When he heard nothing, his neck muscles tightened.

He trotted toward the house and threw open the door. Milo and Kit sat at the table, eating.

Ward’s lungs released a gusty breath.

Mrs. Haevre poured water into cups set in front of the boys. She looked up at his entrance. Like her deceased husband, she had hair the color of straw. But unlike her husband, her blue eyes looked at him in a way that made him wonder why she disapproved of him. He and Baruk had gotten along just fine.

Her gaze went past him. “You have brought someone to care for the boys? Ja?”

He shook his head. “Couldn’t think of anyone suitable.” Not that it was any of her concern.

“You would like a sandwich?”

“Yes, please. Mrs. Wright was a good cook. I’m going to miss that.” He hung his hat by the door and wiped his boots on the rag rug Mrs. Wright had placed there. Heaven help them if he tramped dirt into the clean house. Except it would now be his responsibility to keep it clean. Or let it get dirty if he preferred. The weight of that choice lay heavy on his shoulders.

A man needed a woman to take care of the house and the children.

He squared his shoulders. “We will manage without a housekeeper.”

Milo ducked but not before Ward caught the flash of a smile.