Free Leftover Love by Janet Dailey Page B

crossboards that served as a ladder. “Don’t worry. I know what it is.”

Chapter 5
    The boards were rough-cut and quick to splinter, but Layne had borrowed a pair of Mattie’s lined leather gloves to ride that morning. If she’d worn her mittens to climb the windmill, they would have been shot with slivers of wood. She paused to glance up and check how much farther it was to the platform.
    When her gaze came back level again, she suddenly noticed the view of the Sand Hills from this high vantage. She could literally see for miles and miles. She stared, her imagination caught by the bigness and the emptiness of it.
    “You okay?” The graveled edge of concern in Creed’s question snapped Layne from her absorption. She looked up quickly to see the rough crags of his broad features as he peered over the edge of the platform.
    “I’m fine,” she assured him and hurriedly started climbing again.
    When she was at the top, his hand closed around her arm just above the elbow and hauled her the rest of the way onto the platform with little apparent effort. Layne scootedaway from the edge and passed him the wrench. She noticed the way his half-glance identified the tool, then came back to her face, something flickering briefly in his expression.
    “I used to help my dad a lot when he was monkeying around in the garage,” she offered in explanation. “So I was indoctrinated early in the world of wrenches and ratchets.”
    He held her gaze for another beat, then turned toward the stationary windmill blades and began to tighten the bolts that secured the metal shaft. With the wrench delivered, Layne was free to climb back down, but the view from atop the windmill platform was too compelling. She leaned back on her hands to gaze at the vast stretch of rolling hills.
    “It’s quite a sight from up here, isn’t it?” Layne murmured.
    “Yup.” But Creed never paused in his task to take a look.
    His lack of interest didn’t alter hers. All the statistics Layne had heard and read over the years about the Nebraska Sand Hills came to her mind. They comprised some nineteen thousand square miles of long ridges and mounds—the most extensive dune formation in the Western Hemisphere, likened to the Great Eastern Erg of the Sahara Desert.
    Only here, the desert was an oasis because the vast dunes sat atop great aquifers. The abundant supply of moisture gave the wind-sculptured sand its lush mantle of grass—a veritable sea of waving grass.
    Having driven through the area, Layne knew it was large, but nothing had prepared her for the immensity to be seen from this high viewpoint.There was nothing for mile upon mile but small, angular peaks and flat, broad mounds, heaving and swelling like the ocean. Here and there the smooth ripple of grassland was dotted with trees and thickets growing up around half-hidden spring runs. There was an odd patch of white, too, marking the location of one of the many lakes and ponds that were strewn through the area.
    “Cherry County is supposed to be larger than Connecticut, isn’t it?” She directed the question at Creed without turning to look at him.
    “Yup.”
    “Is it true that there’s a part of Cherry County—larger than Delaware—that doesn’t have a town or a post office?” Once that had seemed a gross exaggeration. Now Layne was prepared to believe it was possible.
    “That’s what they say.” Creed leaned his weight into the wrench to tighten the bolt that last fraction.
    Slightly miffed at his indifferent response when she was seeking information, Layne sent him an irritated glance. Having a conversation with him was like pulling teeth.
    It goaded her into challenging him. “Don’t you ever talk?”
    There was a small pause in his work as Creed cast a sidelong glance at her before his attention reverted to the long shaft. “When I’ve got something to say.”
    Layne stubbornly persisted in her subtle attack on his laconic attitude. “The Scots have a word to describe