From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March

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       Chapter Four

      Clay woke to a crack of thunder. Lightning flared, throwing the pine forest higher up on the hillside into a stark relief that made him think of fingers pointing toward the sky. An instant later, darkness closed around him again, but his mind clung to the image of a small shape sitting on the ground near the edge of the overhang.

      He waited for another flare of lighting. When it came, he knew his eyes hadn’t deceived him. He tossed his blanket aside and rolled to his feet, as agile as a mountain cat. Instead of strapping on his gun belt, he pushed the heavy Walker Colt into his waistband and eased over to the kid.

      He dropped down to his haunches. “There’s no need to be scared, kid. It’s just a storm, and the ground slopes away. When the rain comes, the cavern will stay dry.”

      “I’m not scared.” The kid’s voice was dreamy. “I love thunderstorms. It is different here. At home, you can hear the fury of the ocean and smell the salt spray. The seagulls screech in warning. A storm can mean death to a sailor.”

      Clay listened, fascinated. Years ago, he used to carry around a book of poetry he liked to read from, but he had never heard anyone talk like that.

      The kid went on, “Here the entire nature participates in the storm, like an orchestra playing a symphony. Thunder roars. Lightning cracks. The wind wails in the trees and the cliffs echo it back, multiplying the sound.”

      Clay nodded in the darkness and spoke softly. “When the rain comes, it will add a drumbeat. Sometimes the water cascades down the cliffs so hard you can hear the rattle of pebbles as they roll along.”

      Lightning was almost constant now. He could see the kid’s face, in quick snatches as the darkness broke. The delicate features drew his eyes. He liked looking at the kid, although he struggled to understand why. Maybe it reminded him of Lee and Billy, the other two kids he had tried to rescue in the past. Those memories were painful, but he found that looking at the kid gave him pleasure.

      “I shouldn’t really like storms,” the kid said. “A storm took my parents. They drowned when their boat capsized. My father was a seaman.”

      Clay nodded. His eyes searched the darkness, waiting for another flare of lightning, waiting for another glimpse of the kid. “I know what you mean,” he said quietly. “Sometimes a man can like something without understanding why.”

      * * *

      The storm passed overnight, and Annabel awoke to a bright dawn. With caution, she surveyed the cavern. The men were gone, their bedrolls and blankets neatly folded on a natural rock shelf by the entrance. At the opposite end, where the animals had sheltered, the stone roof sloped down, and in the far corner she could see a stack of equipment partly covered by an oilcloth tarpaulin.

      Satisfied no one was watching, Annabel scrambled to her feet. The aches and pains from the tumble from the train made her wince. She patted her bowler hat, to make sure it remained securely in place, then ran her fingers beneath the brim, to tuck back out of sight any strands of hair that might have escaped. Next, she stamped her feet into the big boots, folded away her blanket and walked over to stack it with the others.

      Voices came from the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, Annabel emerged out into the sunshine and set off along the path. The ground steamed in the morning heat, but the air felt cool and fresh after the storm. Mixed in with the scents of mud and wet leaves she detected the tempting aroma of coffee.

      Under the timber canopy, Mr. Hicks was bustling by the stove and Clay was seated at the table, eating breakfast. His head was bent, his attention on the food. Annabel slowed her pace to study him. He was wearing a hat, but she could see curly brown hair peeking out beneath the brim, and lean, stubble-covered cheeks. His wide mouth pursed as he chewed each mouthful.

      He must have heard her footsteps, for he looked up. Their eyes met, and her breath caught with the sudden jolt. She’d seen handsome men on the train—men who cared about their looks were more likely to have their shoes or boots polished—but none of them had affected her in the same way as Clay did.

      A recollection flooded her mind of how it had felt to ride double with him, her body pressed against his. She’d worried about being stranded in the mining camp because it would postpone her reunion with her sisters, but now she welcomed the delay, for it would allow her an opportunity to get to know her rescuer.

      “Good morning, gentlemen,” she called out from a distance.

      “Ain’t that polite,” Mr. Hicks replied. “You got breeding, kid.”

      Pausing to wash at the water barrel, Annabel inspected her appearance in the mirror fragment, not out of vanity but to make sure her disguise remained undisturbed. She continued into the kitchen and settled on one of the log stumps.

      Mr. Hicks clattered a tin mug onto the table, poured in the thickest and blackest coffee Annabel had ever seen. He pushed the mug in front of her. “What do they call you, kid? Andy?”

      Annabel took a sip of the bitter brew and shook her head. There was safety in the familiar. “My friends call me Scrappy.”

      “Scrappy, huh?” Clay reached over and pinched his forefinger and СКАЧАТЬ