Wagon Train Sweetheart. Lacy Williams

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      They might’ve found him innocent, but Nathan knew he did not have the respect of most of the men.

      But a sudden weakness took his limbs. He wavered, and for a moment wanted nothing more than to lie down like Emma had told him to.

      “Get some rest,” Hewitt said. “You can drive when you’re up to it.”

      The man walked off and Nathan wanted nothing more than to be able to do the same, to find somewhere private to lick his wounds, as it were.

      But he was still near face-to-face with Emma, who remained half in and half out of the wagon, waiting for him to lie back.

      He acquiesced, only because he didn’t think his legs would hold him if he tried to climb out of the wagon. He stared up at the white underside of the bonnet, unsure whether, if he looked at Emma, he would see her disappointed that he hadn’t been more grateful to her brother.

      He wasn’t good at this, at being friendly with people.

      “It’s good you’ve been cleared,” she said. He heard the clink of a fork against a plate and smelled something that had his gut twisting in a reminder that he hadn’t eaten in two days.

      But he still couldn’t look at her.

      “I imagine Stillwell was disappointed.” Nathan was surprised that the words emerged so easily when he hadn’t intended to say anything at all.

      “Why?”

      He wasn’t going to answer, but she touched his forehead, a gentle brush of her fingertips, and his eyes flicked to her of their own accord.

      Her gaze reflected only sincere curiosity and he found himself saying, “He seems to have it in for me.”

      He watched a tiny crease form between her eyebrows, just above the bridge of her nose.

      But she didn’t laugh at him, she didn’t dismiss his statement out of hand.

      “Are you certain you’re not…” She hesitated.

      Her voice trailed off, but he could guess what she’d been going to say.

      “Imagining that he dislikes me?”

      He couldn’t hold her gaze and turned his head to stare at the opposite sideboard. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.

      Was he imagining Stillwell’s watchful, suspicious gazes? No. The man expressed more suspicion toward Nathan than most folks, who tended to simply avoid him.

      When she spoke again, her voice sounded cheery, as if the previous conversation hadn’t occurred. “The good news is you won’t have to bear my company all day.”

      It was a relief. He didn’t know how to act around her.

      But he also felt a small twinge of disappointment.

      It was better this way. Better not to learn to enjoy her company, even for a few hours.

      “What am I supposed to do, confined to the wagon all day?” he asked.

      “You could sing,” she suggested.

      “Sing?” he repeated.

      “Sing. Rachel and I would be cheered if you were to serenade us as we walk.”

      He stared dumbly at her until her lips turned up in a smile and then she dissolved into giggles.

      Her mirth was contagious—how long had it been since he’d made anyone smile?—but he prevailed against the urge to smile.

      She finally controlled herself, hiding her remaining smile behind her hand. “I suppose you’ll have to read to pass the time.”

      “Read?”

      “You can’t read?”

      His education had been spotty at best. But he’d spent several years of his adult life teaching himself to read, not wanting to be cheated by those he traded with.

      And it was a matter of pride for him. A man should know how to read.

      “I can read,” he told her.

      And if there was a flash of admiration in her eyes, he didn’t feel a responding flash of pride.

      She rustled around in the belongings packed against the opposite sideboard. What must it be like to own so many things?

      Even in Nathan’s childhood, his family had scraped by. Never enough money for necessities—like food—and none at all for frivolities like books. The Hewitts were blessed.

      “I’ll need to help break camp, so I’ll leave you to your breakfast.” She placed a dark green hardcover book at his knee, next to the plate of food. Pilgrim’s Progress.

      “Don’t get up,” she told him, face and voice grave. “You’re too weak to bear it.”

      And his fleeting sense of pride dissipated completely.

      * * *

      Emma spent the morning with Rachel, attempting to gather fuel for their campfire. The terrain combined bluffs and rocky hills, sometimes passing over ledges that frightened her if she found herself looking down.

      So she stopped looking and focused on two brothers playing chase through the wagons.

      She and Rachel ranged off from the caravan, though not too far, and worked at gathering buffalo chips among the sparsely growing vegetation. It was not her preferred fuel—she did not appreciate the smell as it burned—but it was something.

      Every time her apron filled and she passed close to the wagon to deposit her load in the fuel box, she felt caught in Nathan’s glittering obsidian gaze. She’d never met anyone with eyes so dark.

      He kept the book in hand, she could see the deep green spine against his worn shirt, but she couldn’t get a sense whether he was really reading it or not. Maybe he didn’t like Christian’s story.

      Once when she passed, he was dozing. When she dumped her load into the crate affixed to the side of the wagon, he started and roused, looking wildly around for a moment.

      “Sorry,” she apologized.

      “Why should you be?” He asked the question almost belligerently, as if he didn’t have a right to a simple apology. He softened the awkward, hard statement by adding, “I’m a passenger—you’re working.”

      He appeared chagrined, his cheeks going pink above his beard.

      Maybe she’d found the one specimen of the opposite sex who was as awkward as she.

      It made her smile. “I am not working that hard.”

      His eyes flicked to her. “Walking so far is hard work.”

      She shrugged. “I’ve stopped noticing. СКАЧАТЬ