Free A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) by Debra Holland Page A

what she’d done, Bridget gasped and pulled away. Holy mother of God, what came over me!
    “You missed.”
    “Missed?” Confused, Bridget only knew her face must be beet red.
    He tapped his lips, laughter in his eyes.
    “Oh, ye.” She swatted at him, but the urge to kiss his dimples again remained, unnerving her. Her face hot, Bridget turned and hurried toward the copse of trees. When she reached their shelter, she looked behind her to see what James was doing.
    He grinned and waved, but made no move to follow her.
    Her hands flew to cover her burning cheeks, and Bridget fled back the way they’d come and didn’t stop until she’d reached the safety of the big barn.
    Once there, she thrust open the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind her—far harder than necessary—and tried to catch her breath.
    In Thunder’s stall, Patrick groomed the horse. His attention was fully absorbed in the stallion. His hands were gentle, and he murmured to Thunder in a quiet voice.
    Bridget couldn’t make out the words, just the warmth of his tone. She’d never seen a more perfect picture of masculine beauty—both man and beast—not that Thunder was a beast. No, far from it. The stallion was as sweet as clover—an unusual temperament for a Thoroughbred.
    “I’m not sure who likes the grooming more—him or ye.”
    With a jerk, his head came up, and he slanted her a glance. “I was looking for you.”
    Calmer now, she came to the stall door, unlatched it, went in, and walked to his side.
    “Thought you’d like to work with Thunder.” Patrick shrugged. “But when I couldn’t find you I did the job myself.” His posture radiated displeasure.
    “Oh,” she said in disappointment. All week, she’d been angling to work with Thunder—had striven to build Patrick’s trust in her skills with horses. Have I ruined my only chance?
    “James took me to see some land where I could plant my potatoes.”
    His brows pulled together in a frown. “Potatoes?”
    With a shock, Bridget realized she hadn’t shared with Patrick her dream of a potato farm. Strange how that hasn’t happened, for I’ve told anyone else who’s shown the slightest sign of interest.
    Perhaps he hasn’t given me any. Their talk had been only of horses, with some sharing about their previous lives. “Alana and I brought potatoes from Ireland. I plan to raise a crop to sell.” She went on to tell him the story about her family surviving the famine, including her pride in their achievements.
    His frown didn’t abate. “I’ve nothing against a good spud, mind you. At my house, we have a well-stocked garden, which, as my cook tells me, leads to a well-stocked pantry and root cellar.” His jaw tightened, as if he’d planned to say more, but stopped himself.
    Bridget had a feeling she wouldn’t have wanted to hear the rest.
    “Did I ever tell you about my house? My horse farm is outside of Crenshaw. A couple hours journey by train from Sweetwater Springs.”
    His abrupt change of topic confused her, but she managed a shake of her head.
    “My place is about the size of the Thompson’s here, in a snug green valley with lush grazing.” He tilted his head in the direction of Samantha’s home. “My house is perhaps a little narrower. Bigger porch. It’s painted blue instead of white.”
    “Blue?” Bridget queried, intrigued, and wished she could see the place.
    “I’m partial to blue. It’s sort of…” He looked around as if seeking something with the color he wanted. “Dark blue. With white trim.”
    “Sounds attractive.”
    “Matching stables and a small barn for the other livestock—pigs, cows. No goats, though.”
    She laughed. “Ye might need to acquire some.” Thunder seemed quite taken with the goats, but Patrick had shown silent, although clear, disapproval about the way the twins’ goats visited the horses, often remaining in their stalls to keep them company.
    Patrick scowled. “If Thunder becomes attached to one, he’ll pine