Second-Chance Bride (Dakota Brides Book 3)(31)

They sat elbow to elbow, neither of them making a move to put distance between them.

He was right about her finding comfort in the kiss. And in his presence and his understanding. He’d said she needed to decide what she wanted. Those words cleared a tangle in her brain. She thought she had to prove something to her family. To Baruk. But she didn’t.

She watched the boys playing. They grabbed the end of the branch and pulled. She laughed. “It’s a tug of war between them and the branch.”

“I’m proud of them for not giving up.”

“Me too.”

The boys leaned back, putting all their weight into trying to free the branch. It snapped and they fell to the ground.

They were up in an instant and examined their treasure. They picked it up, one boy on each end, and carried it away to the edge of the trees.

“What are they doing?” Ward asked.

“We’ll have to wait and see.”

The boys leaned the branch against a crook in a tree and set to work gathering up smaller sticks and brushwood.

“It’s a tent. Or fort.” Ward chuckled. “They’re putting in a lot of effort.”

“They’re hard working. Just like their father.”

Ward grinned at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Heaven help her, she couldn’t keep her gaze from slipping to his lips. Having once tasted—

She had no idea where those words came from, nor would she allow her brain to finish the thought. Or was it having once loved?

She shook her head and concentrated on Milo and Kit. Their fort had taken on the shape of a tent. Milo ducked into the enclosure and Kit followed.

The sound of laughter reached them on the hill.

She enjoyed listening to them. The hardest thing about her choice to come to America was saying good-bye to her large and happy family. She shivered and looked about.

The sun had dipped toward the west and the air grew cool.

Ward got to his feet. “It’s late. Time to go home.”

She rose and folded the blankets. Ward called the boys.

She watched them leave their fort and head toward Ward and herself. Several times they glanced back at the work of their hands. “It’s a shame to make them leave after all their hard work.”

“I know, but it will soon be dark.”

“Maybe we can come again.” She did not look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invite myself.”

“It wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t accompany us.”

She looked at him.

He looked at her lips. She resisted an urge to lick them. And an even greater longing to press her lips to his.

She dropped the blankets into the cart as the boys reached them.

“Can we ride?” Kit asked.

“Okay.” Ward lifted the younger boy in and Milo climbed in on his own.

“I’ll help push.” Freyda would not admit that she wanted to help so she could walk close to Ward nor that she wanted to feel a part of this family.

By the time they reached the house, Kit’s head lulled against his brother’s chest. Freyda’s throat tightened at the tender picture. Kit wakened and shivered. “I’m cold.”

“Why don’t I make hot cocoa?” Freyda offered, not allowing herself to admit she welcomed a chance to prolong the day.

“That would be nice.” Ward carried Kit into the house.

Freyda hurried to the kitchen and set the milk to heat while she put out four heavy china cups. Minutes later, they sat down at the table, hot cocoa before each of them.

Kit could barely keep his eyes open as he drank.

Milo giggled at his brother, but his amusement ended in a wide yawn.

Ward chuckled. “Finish up, you two, and then into bed.”

The boys downed the last of their drink. Ward carried Kit to the bedroom, Milo trudging along behind.

Freyda put away the picnic things and washed the cups and saucepan. She put milk into a saucer for the kitten. She dried the last item and hung the towel to dry just as Ward emerged from the bedroom.

“They are already asleep. Are you in a hurry to leave?”

She should go home and check on Smokey. Shut in the chickens. Leave Ward and the memories of the shared afternoon. The memory of a kiss. Instead, she said, “I’m in no hurry.”

“Are you warm enough to sit outside and watch the sunset?”

“I’m fine.” She wouldn’t complain in the midst of a snowstorm if he asked her to share an evening with him.

He took two chairs out and put them side by side. They sat close enough she could feel and welcome some body heat.

“It’s chilly.” He went inside and brought back one of the picnic blankets and draped it around her shoulders.

Her imagination suggested his fingers lingered on her shoulders a moment longer than necessary to put the blanket in place, then he returned to his chair and tipped back. “I think that was one of the nicest afternoons I’ve ever had.”

Freyda allowed herself to think that might be in part, from her being with him. “What are some of your other good afternoons?”

He grew still. “Apart from the birth of my sons, I don’t have a lot of good memories. Seems even the ones that started out good turned sour.”

She stifled a protest at how he’d been raised. “Tell me about a good one.”