Inheriting a Bride. Lauri Robinson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ are you?”

      “No.”

      His cheekbones were slightly tinged red. That, too, excited her in a unique and secretive way. “I think you are.”

      “You think wrong, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts.” He held up a canvas bag and nodded toward the grove of trees. “Hungry?”

      She turned to follow, which was a mistake. The first step had her gulping. Walking was worse than riding. Picking a slow trail, pretending to scrutinize the lay of the land, she made her way after him.

      “A little sore?” That irritating grin of his was back.

      “No,” she lied.

      “That why you offered to walk earlier?”

      She cast him her best “you’re annoying me” gaze.

      He grinned and sat down, digging into the bag.

      By the time she arrived at his side, he’d laid out several pieces of jerky, a crusty loaf of bread, broken in half, and two apples on a blue-and-white-plaid napkin. But it was the ground, which looked as hard as the leather-covered train seats had been, that held her attention. If she sat, she might never get up, yet her stomach growled as her eyes darted toward the food.

      He stood. “I have to get the canteen.”

      She nodded absently, still wondering how painful sitting would prove to be. Perhaps she could stand while eating. If he’d hand her the food, she wouldn’t even need to bend over.

      Still contemplating options, she glanced his way when he returned. Along with the canteen, he had the two blankets that made up his bedroll. Quite honorably, he folded one and then the other, and stacked them on the ground.

      “Try that,” he said, patting the blankets.

      Kit pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and met his gaze.

      “It’s obvious, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, that you’re sore from being in the saddle too long.”

      “Obvious?”

      He was a large man, with broad shoulders and bulky arms covered in a tan flannel shirt and leather vest. But the kindness simmering in his blue eyes made him look like a proper gentleman who might come calling on a Saturday night.

      That thought did something to her insides, had things stirring around in a very peculiar way.

      “Happens to everyone now and again.” He held out a hand, inviting her to take the seat he’d prepared.

      The stirring inside her grew warmer, something Kit thought she should question, but instead, another unusual instinct had her accepting his offer by placing her hand in his. He flinched sympathetically as she lowered herself, and his compassion somehow eased the sting as she settled onto the blanket. “Thank you, Mr. Hoffman.” Feeling a need to justify something—whether her abilities or the odd things going on inside her—she added, “I have ridden before.”

      His brows arched enigmatically. “I’ve no doubt you have, Katherine.” Clay handed her a long strip of jerky and forcibly bit the end off another piece. He chewed slowly, sitting there beside her and gazing across the hillside.

      She wondered why he’d emphasized her name so. The way he said it made her heart skip a beat. Kind of like when she’d thought of him calling on Saturday nights. No one had ever called upon her any night of the week, so where on earth had that thought come from? Pondering, she let her gaze wander along the same skyline as his.

      It was a picturesque sight, the mountainside decorated with newly leafed trees and patches of bold green grass, along with pines and spruces, unfathomably dense, that grew in the most unexpected places. Even during the train ride, which had had her stomach flipping and her temples pounding, she’d been in awe at the beauty of the Rockies. Gramps had told her about it, but up close, the wild and raw grandeur was astounding. Romantic, even.

      “So,” Clay said, interrupting her ponderings, “why the getup?”

      She swallowed and licked the salt from the jerky off her lips. “The getup?”

      His eyes roamed from the hole in the tip of one boot to the plaid shirt hanging loosely about her shoulders.

      “I figured a boy riding in the hills wouldn’t gain much more than a second glance,” she said.

      They were silent for a while, other than the crunch of teeth sinking into the apples, which were surprisingly sweet and crisp considering they must have been bouncing around in his saddlebags. When he’d pitched his apple core toward Andrew, and the horse had snatched it up quickly, Clay asked, “And the bandages?”

      Kit felt the heat rise on her cheeks, but didn’t bow her head or look away. “I told you, they aren’t bandages.”

      “Then what are they?”

      The sting of embarrassment grew. “If you must know …”

      He waited patiently as she finished her apple and tossed the leftovers to the expectant-looking Andrew. Feeling more than a touch flustered, but knowing he wouldn’t let up until she answered, she said, “I couldn’t wear my …” she lowered her voice “… normal garments beneath the disguise, so I wrapped myself.” She’d read about that in a book, and it had worked remarkably well.

      “Wrapped yourself?”

      She nodded.

      “Why?”

      If it wouldn’t be excruciating, she’d have bounded to her feet. Instead she tried to explain her reason vaguely. “The disguise would not have worked as well if I hadn’t.”

      The humor glittering in his eyes made a new bout of something akin to anger sweep up her spine.

      “I suspect it wouldn’t have,” he said, stopping his knowing gaze on her torso.

      The way her breasts tingled had her shooting to her feet. Flinching and catching her breath at the sharp pains and dull throbs that resulted, she couldn’t stop from grasping her backside with one hand. Gritting her teeth, she prayed for the burning sensation to ease.

      “Here.”

      Not realizing she’d closed her eyes, Kit was surprised to see him standing beside her, holding out a small tin. “What’s that?”

      “Salve.”

      “For what?”

      He glanced around as if assuring their privacy, and then leaned closer to whisper, “For the saddle sore on your rump.”

      “My r—” She swallowed the rest of the word, aghast.

      “Yes, your rump.” Though he looked as if he was about to burst out laughing, he didn’t. “Saddle sores are a common ailment, and nothing to be embarrassed about.” His expression turned serious. “They’re also nothing to mess with. Especially once the boil forms.”

      The intense heat of mortification СКАЧАТЬ