An oversized rooster had fallen into her hands this afternoon, one who’d taken to sleeping in the rafters of the barn and had thereby escaped plucking. She’d made him up like a Thanksgiving turkey with stuffing.

Lifting the lid off the roasting pan, she saw the bird was done and browned perfectly. It would be ready to serve at the same time the cinnamon rolls came out of the oven. She had potatoes boiling, soon to be mashed. There were carrots, baked and glazed. It was a fine meal, and she enjoyed thinking of the nice fuss they’d make of it.

Win and Kevin would come, she’d asked them specially. She doubted Cheyenne and Falcon would be back, but there was plenty if they made the long ride. It wasn’t impossibly long, but long enough if they were in the middle of repairing the cabin.

Andy, he liked it too much with the working men.

And Wyatt. She paused. Instead of lifting the chicken from the pan, she touched her lips. She could still feel the kiss. The heat of it. The intrigue. The sweetness.

Shaking her head, she said out loud, “No. I’m not getting married.”

Not that Wyatt had asked. No, he’d run like a scared rabbit.

But if he had, the answer was no. She had no wish for marriage. No interest in binding herself to a man. Her own pa was reason enough. Her ma marrying badly twice made it worse. And knowing how a man could steal a woman’s property was the final blow. She had plans to work, teach school. Starting next Monday, she’d be earning money, and it would be hers to keep. Maybe in a couple of years, when she was twenty-one, she could homestead, build a small cabin. Kevin and Andy would help her. If there was a place near Bear Claw Pass left to claim, she could work as the schoolmarm and set up a decent kitchen at her own home and cook for herself.

She wondered if she could eat a whole chicken before she tired of it. A whole pan of cinnamon rolls.

It didn’t matter. Her life was all planned and in order.

And then Wyatt Hunt had kissed her.

And she really wanted him to do it again.

She put the chicken on a platter, then set plates and utensils on the table. She made gravy, scraping crunchy bits of chicken drippings from the bottom of the pan. She pulled out a pan of glazed carrots from the oven and turned them into a bowl. The cinnamon rolls smelled luscious and were minutes away from perfection.

The sun was well set as she mashed the potatoes. She heard the back door open and close quietly. Probably Wyatt, that kiss-stealing skunk.

“Molly.”

Startled by the unfamiliar woman’s voice, Molly spun around and flung a spoonful of potatoes through the air.