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bride-to-be was. Wouldn’t every man in town be jealous? But instead of becoming the envy of the town, he became Barnett’s laughingstock—the man duped into believing a highbred eastern woman would want to carve out a life on the Kansas plains.
    He banged the pitchfork on the stall door, shaking the hay loose. If only it were as simple to shake loose the unpleasant memories. As much as he hated to admit it, Cole was right—a man naturally thought of matrimony. But thoughts of marriage led Abel straight to thoughts of Amanda. Why would he want to relive a hurt such as that?
    He hooked the pitchfork on a wooden peg in the tack room and then headed for the house. By now Cole should have breakfast laid out so the men could eat and get the day started. Abel grimaced, considering Cole’s sorry excuse for cooking. But there was no cure for it—each of the men took their turn, and this week was Cole’s.
    “Wouldn’t be so bad to have one of ’em on your ranch, seein’ to the cookin’ . . .”
    Cole’s words returned to haunt Abel. He came to a dead halt in the middle of the yard and gave his forehead a firm whack with the butt of his hand to send the idea far from his mind. The last thing he needed was another eastern woman leaving him high and dry!
    He set his feet in motion again, but his heels dragged, his thoughts refusing to go where he demanded. Amanda had been a woman of wealth. She’d claimed she found the high society life unbearably dull and without challenge. So she’d agreed to join him on his ranch. After a few weeks, however, she admitted her pampered life hadn’t prepared her for the ruggedness of the Kansas plains, and she broke her agreement with Abel to return to the East.
    But was it fair to compare these women Aunt Hattie had brought in to Amanda? They weren’t wealthy and spoiled like Amanda. Aunt Hattie had invited working girls, girls accustomed to labor. And time under Hattie’s tutelage would surely provide them with all the skills needed to meet the demands of being a rancher’s wife.
    “Abel?” Ethan Rylin called from the open doorway of the house, yanking Abel from his reverie. “Cole’s got breakfast cooked.” Ethan made a face as Abel trotted up to the porch. “Burnt pancakes and raw bacon. But I figure we’ve eaten worse on his week. . . .”
    Abel followed Ethan into the house, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell of burnt food permeating the dwelling. He sank into the chair at the head of the table and stared at the pitiful mess substituting as breakfast on his plate. “Vince, would you give the blessing?”
    Vince offered thanks for the food while Abel’s thoughts rolled onward. Cole was right—it would be beneficial to have a woman on the place, seeing to the cooking and cleaning. Should he check into hiring a housekeeper? But how would he pay her? He couldn’t afford a housekeeper, but a man didn’t have to pay a wife a wage. . . .
    He jabbed his fork into the pancake on his plate. No wife . Not for him. Having his heart stomped once was plenty for any man.

    “Why, Sallie, you do know your way around a cow.”
    Tressa peeked over her shoulder. Sallie stood next to Mrs. Wyatt, a triumphant grin on her face and a full bucket in her hand. With a frustrated sigh, Tressa turned her attention back to the cow she’d chosen as her own. The brown and white beast, with its large eyes and incredibly long eyelashes, had seemed a cooperative sort. Unlike the one Mabelle chose, Tressa’s cow stood complacently rather than shifting her feet. But the gentle animal refused to release more than a weak dribble of milk into Tressa’s pail.
    Despite the measly return, she dutifully continued her squeeze-and-pull on the cow’s teats, just as Mrs. Wyatt had instructed. She also kept her lips tightly clamped against complaint. Evelyn openly and loudly proclaimed her opinions on rising at such an early hour, sitting in such an unladylike position, and being forced to endure the odors