Gingham Bride. Jillian Hart

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СКАЧАТЬ her. Maybe it was because of the pretty picture she made, like a piece from a poem, an untamed horse and the curly haired innocent chasing him. It was his imagination at work again, for he was happier in his thoughts than anywhere. Hers was an image he would pen down later tonight when he was alone with his notebook.

      “Your grandfather promised.” O’Rourke was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t relent. “I knew this would happen first time you caught sight of her. Fiona is no beauty, that’s for sure, but I’m strapped. Times are hard for me and my wife. We can’t keep feedin’ and clothin’ her and we don’t want to. It’s high time she was married and your family and me, we had this arranged before you both was born.”

      He had heard it all before. Nearly the same words his grandmother had told him over and over with hope sparkling in her eyes. After all that she had lost, how could he outright disappoint her? Life was complicated and love more so.

      Would the girl understand? Was she already packing her hope chest? She swept into sight, farther away, hardly more than a flash of red, a bit of gray and those bouncing black curls. From behind, she made a lovely pose, willowy and petite, with her flare of skirt and elegant outstretched hand, slowly approaching the lone horse. The animal looked lathered, his skin flicking with nervous energy as if ready to bolt again.

      “Fool girl,” O’Rourke growled, halting the horse near a paint-peeling, lopsided barn. “She ought to know she’ll never catch the beast that way.”

      Her back was still to him, distant enough that she was more impression than substance, more whimsy than real with the falling snow cloaking her. If he had the time, he could capture the emotion in watercolors with muted tones and blurred lines to show her skirt and outstretched hand.

      Ian vaguely realized the older man was digging in the back for something, and the rattle of a chain tore him from his thoughts and into the bitter-cold moment. He did not want to know what O’Rourke was up to; he’d seen enough of the man to expect the worst. He hopped into the deep snow, ignoring the hitch of pain in his left leg, and reached for his cane. “I shall take care of it. I have a way with horses.”

      “So do I.” O’Rourke shook out a length of something that flickered like a snake’s tongue—aye, a whip. “This won’t take long with the two of us.”

      “No need to get yourself cold and tired out.” Under no circumstances was he going to be involved in that brand of horse handling. Best to placate the man, and then figure out what he was going to do. What his grandparents hadn’t told him about their best friend’s son could fill a barrel. The ten-minute drive from town in the man’s company was nine minutes more than he felt fit to handle. He gestured toward the ramshackle shanty up the rise a ways. “You go on up to the house where the fire is warm. Let me manage this for you.”

      “Well, young fellow, that sounds mighty good.” O’Rourke seemed pleased and held out the whip. “I suspect you might need this.”

      Ian looked with distaste at the sinuous black length. “I see a rope looped over the fencepost. That will be enough.”

      “Suit yourself. It will be here if you need it.” O’Rourke sounded amused as he tossed down the whip and sank boot-deep into the snow. He gestured toward the harnessed gelding, standing head down, as if his spirit had been broken long ago. “I’ll leave this one for you to stable.”

      It wasn’t a question, and Ian didn’t like the sound of mean beneath the man’s conversational tone. Still, he’d been brought up to respect his elders, so he held his tongue. O’Rourke and how he lived his life were not his concern. Seeing his grandmother through her final days and figuring out a way to make a living for both of them was his purpose.

      He ought not to be giving in to his fanciful side, but with every step he took he noted the gray daylight falling at an angle, shadows hugging the lee side of rises and fence posts, but not over the girl. As he loosened the harness and lifted the horse collar from the gelding’s back, he felt a strange longing, for what he did not know. Perhaps it was the haunting beauty of this place of sweeping prairies and loneliness. Maybe it was simply from traveling so long and far from everything he knew. There was another possibility, and one he didn’t much want to think on. He led the horse to the corral gate, unlooped the coiled rope from the post, used the rails to struggle onto the horse’s back and swiped snow from his eyelashes.

      Where had she gone? He breathed in the prairie’s stillness, coiling the long driving reins and knotting them. He leaned to open the gate and directed the horse through. No animal stirred, a sign the storm setting in was bound to get worse. Only the wind’s flat-noted wail chased across the rolling and falling white prairie. Different from his Kentucky home, and while he missed the trees and verdant fields, this sparse place held beauty, too.

      “C’mon, boy.” He drew the gate closed behind them. The crest where he’d last spotted the girl and horse was empty. He pressed the gelding into a quick walk. Falling flakes tapped with greater force and veiled the sky and the horizon, closing in on him until he could no longer see anything but gray shadows and white snow. He welcomed the beat of the wild wind and needle-sharp flakes. The farmer in him delighted in the expansive fields and the sight of a cow herd foraging in the far distance. Aye, he missed his family’s homestead. He missed the life he had been born to.

      When he reached the hill’s crest, hoofprints and shoe prints merged and circled, clearly trailing northward. A blizzard was coming, that was his guess, for the wind became cruel and the snowflakes furious. At least he had tracks to follow. He did not want to think what he would find when he was face-to-face with the woman. He could only pray she did not want this union any more than he did. And why would she? he mused as he tucked his cane in one hand. The girl would likely want nothing to do with him, a washed-up horseman more comfortable chatting with his animals than a woman.

      Perhaps it was Providence that brought the snow down like a shield, protecting him from sight as he nosed the horse into the teeth of the storm. Maybe the Almighty knew how hard it was going to be for him to face the girl, and sent the wind to swirl around him like a defense. He could do this; he drew in a long breath of wintry air and steeled his spine. Talking to a woman might not be his strong suit, but he had done more terrifying things. Right now none came to mind, but that was only because his brains muddled whenever a female was nearby. Which meant that somewhere in the thick curtain of white, Miss Fiona O’Rourke, his betrothed, had to be very close.

      He heard her before he saw her. At least he thought that was her. The quiet soprano was sheer beauty, muted by the storm and unconsciously true, as if the singer were unaware of her gifted voice. Sure rounded notes seemed to float amid the tumbling snowflakes, the melody hardly more than a faint rise and fall until the horse drew him closer and he recognized the tune.

      “O come all ye faithful,” she sang. “Joyful and triumphant.”

      He wondered how anything so warm and sweet could be borne on the bitterest winds he’d ever felt. They sliced through his layers of wool and flannel like the sharpest blade, and yet her sweet timbre lulled him warmly, opening his heart when the cruel cold should have closed it up tight.

      “O come ye, oh come ye…” The snowfall parted enough to hint at the shadow of a young woman, dark curls flecked with white, holding out her hand toward the darker silhouette of the giant draft horse. “To Bethlehem. Come and behold him…”

      The horse he rode plunged toward her as if captivated. Ian understood. He, too, felt drawn to her like the snowflakes to the ground. They were helpless to take another course from sky to earth just as he could not help drawing the horse to a stop to watch. Being near to her should have made his palms sweat and cloying tightness take over his chest, but he hardly noticed his suffocating СКАЧАТЬ