Lone Star Heiress. Winnie Griggs

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СКАЧАТЬ she wasn’t nearly as wobbly as she’d been earlier. It took her a bit longer to change than usual, but she did it and carefully placed the borrowed nightdress over the back of the chair.

      She wished she had a mirror so she could see how she looked. Then she grimaced—maybe it was better that she didn’t. She likely looked a fright with her hair all a mess and her fingers stained from the berries. She pulled the comb from her saddlebag and tried to remove the worst of the tangles without disturbing the bandage. Then she quickly plaited a loose braid and let it fall down her back. With the bandage around her head, there wasn’t much else to be done with it. Besides, Mr. Parker had already seen it in much worse condition so it wasn’t as if this would shock him further.

      Taking a deep breath and giving Rufus a pat, Ivy stepped out of the bedchamber. Her rescuer wasn’t anywhere in sight. She paused a moment to study her surroundings—she hadn’t been in any shape to pay attention when she’d first arrived.

      To her right was a large fireplace. It was clean and tidy with wood stacked nearby. Facing the fireplace was the sofa she’d rested on when she’d first arrived. Thankfully she saw no signs of blood or dirt. There was a cozy little kitchen and a dining table across the room. The curtains at the windows and the apron hanging on a peg by the door spoke of a woman’s touch. Off to one side, a ladder led up to a small loft tucked in under the eaves.

      On the opposite side of the common room was a curtained-off area. Another bedchamber, perhaps?

      Rufus padded out the open front door and she heard him give a friendly woof. A masculine voice returned the greeting. Well, that solved the mystery of Mr. Parker’s whereabouts.

      When she stepped outside, she was greeted by the sight of her missing clothing draped over the porch rail. A closer look showed that the pieces weren’t just airing out but were clean.

      Had he actually done her laundry? She wasn’t normally missish, but the thought of him doing such a personal thing for her sent the warmth climbing up her neck and into her cheeks.

      “Miss Feagan. What are you doing out of bed?”

      She started at the sound of his voice. The sight of her clothes and thoughts of what it meant had momentarily made her forget she wasn’t alone.

      Mr. Parker sat off to her right in a ladder-backed chair. He had a large pad of paper in his lap, a pencil in his hand and a frown on his face.

      She quickly collected herself—his washing her clothes likely meant nothing more than that he liked everything around him to be all neat and tidy.

      Besides, the question about what he was doing with that oversize pad of paper was much more interesting.

      And a much safer focus for her thoughts.

      As soon as Mr. Parker saw her glance at his paper, he closed the pad, set down his pencil and stood. “Are you sure you should be up so soon?”

      Was it just worry for her well-being that put the edge in his tone, or was she intruding? Choosing to believe the former, Ivy brushed his concern aside with a wave of her hand. “I’m feeling much better, thank you. And Nana Dovie always says, sunshine and fresh air go a long way toward healing an ailing body.”

      Ignoring his frown, she changed the subject. “Thank you for taking care of my clothes—seems I just keep getting deeper into your debt.”

      His expression shifted as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I just tossed them in the lake when I went down to wash up earlier. It didn’t take much effort.”

      She could tell he’d done more than soak her things—they’d had a good scrubbing. But she let it pass and instead sat in the rocker next to his chair. Then she pointed to his pad of paper. “Please don’t let me stop you from finishing whatever it was you were working on.”

      He sat back down. “It’s just some idle sketching—nothing that can’t wait.”

      This man was full of surprises. Intrigued, she leaned forward. “Mind if I look?”

      He hesitated, then shrugged. “Help yourself.”

      She took the tablet and flipped it open. Then her eyes widened. She was looking at a perfect likeness of a hummingbird hovering over a morning glory. It was done all in pencil, but he’d somehow managed to capture the movement of the bird and the early morning dewiness of the flower with simple lines and a bit of shading.

      She turned the page and found yet another remarkable work. It was his horse, contentedly grazing near an old wooden fence. A dandelion was bent by a breeze that had teased some of the fluff from the stalk. Again, the level of detail he’d managed to capture with just a pencil was remarkable.

      When she turned the page yet again, she found an unfinished drawing. It was the view from the porch. The railings and support post were in the foreground, and beyond that was an open area and then a stand of brush and trees. A quick glance verified that he’d faithfully captured the image of the tree line up ahead.

      She turned and found him watching her closely. Was he worried about her opinion? “These drawings are very good.”

      Such God-given talent was surely a treasure to be nurtured and shared. He should be displaying them proudly, not trying to hide them away.

      This Mr. Parker was definitely a puzzle—one she was coming to wish she had time to figure out.

      * * *

      Mitch had watched her closely as she studied his work. He rarely showed his sketches to anyone—it was only a hobby, after all, and much too personal to share casually.

      Not that he cared much what others thought.

      But her genuine smile of delight was oddly gratifying. “Thank you. It’s just something I do to pass the time.” He took the sketchbook and set it on the table, then changed the subject. “Are you hungry? There’s more soup on the stove.”

      She shook her head, then went right back to the subject of his sketches. “Do you ever draw people?”

      Was she hinting that she wanted him to sketch her? “Not often.”

      “So you do sometimes,” she pressed. “I’d love to have you sketch Nana Dovie.”

      That surprised him. “You might do better to get a photograph. Reggie, the lady who owns this cabin, is a photographer and her work is quite good.”

      She wrinkled her nose consideringly. “I think I’d rather a sketch. Photographs seem so stiff.” Then she sighed. “Not that it matters. Nana Dovie would never travel this far for something she’d think was nonsensical.”

      She looked around then, obviously done with the subject of his artwork. “Where are Jubal and your horse?”

      “Around back.”

      “And where does that trail lead?” she asked, waving to her left.

      “There’s a small lake about three hundred yards down that way. It’s where the water I’ve been using comes from, and there’s good fishing there, too.”

      Her eyes lit up. “Is there a spare fishing pole around here?”

      “Several. СКАЧАТЬ