Patchwork Bride. Jillian Hart

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СКАЧАТЬ deep within her shouted to turn and flee while she could, but she did not move as the piece of muslin brushed against her cheek.

      Should it surprise her that his touch was gentle? She’d never been this close to a man her parents did not know. Her cheek tingled from the dab and scrape of the cloth. He folded his crisp white handkerchief and rubbed again at her cheekbone, close enough that she could smell the rain on his coat. Near enough that she could see the individual stubbles of his unshaven jaw and the threads of gold in his breath-stealing blue eyes.

      Should she be noticing such things? Aloof, he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and took several steps back. Now that he was not so near, the breathless feeling should go away, shouldn’t it? Oughtn’t her pulse rate return to normal?

      “I had best see to your buggy, miss. You need me to carry you over to the grass?” His baritone held a smiling quality as he took another step back, his gaze never leaving her face.

      An odd feeling, being peered at like that, as if she were something worthy to be looked at. Vaguely she remembered the buggy and her little sister somewhere nearby watching, cleared her throat and tried to do the same with her cluttered mind. “No, I’m not afraid of a little mud.”

      “A little? You look like you were in a rolling contest with a pig and won. No offense, miss.”

      “None taken.” Why was she laughing? She looked down helplessly at the drying mud on her light yellow silk overskirt. Mama would definitely get the vapors when she saw this. “I feel as if I should lend a hand. At this point, I cannot get any muddier.”

      “Don’t be too sure.” He knuckled back his hat, revealing dark brown hair that was thick, untamed and a little too long for decent fashion. “I was wrong about you. At first look I mistook you for a vain, helpless miss, but you are clearly a country girl.”

      “Surely I am at heart.” There was no way he could know how wrong he was. She worried that no matter how hard she tried to be otherwise, she would always be Robert and Henrietta Worthington’s daughter, expected one day to be the perfect wife living an impeccable life of giving parties, raising well-mannered children and upholding the family’s fine reputation. She feared her dreams of teaching children would never be realized.

      “It’ll only take a moment to hitch up.” He whistled to his horse.

      The wind gusted, batting the troubling lock of hair back into her eyes. She swiped at it, wondering how she must look standing in the mud with her hair a tumble and her skirts spattered enough to hide the intricate shirring and stitching and expensive satin hem. Easy to see how he could mistake her for a country girl, which she truly longed to be. Her friends, Fiona, Earlee and Kate, were country girls and some of the best friends a girl could have. She wanted nothing more than to be like them.

      The spotted bay gelding trotted obediently forward, nose outstretched, nickering low in his throat in answer to his master. Shane took a moment to stroke his horse’s nose, and Meredith remembered his gentle touch. Another shiver slid down her spine imagining being taken up in his arms. If a girl were to lay her cheek against his broad chest, she might feel safe and sheltered. Maybe even treasured.

      There she went, spinning daydreams again.

      “Are you coming, Braden?” Shane knelt to squint at the buggy’s rigging, his horse nibbling at his hat brim.

      The other man didn’t answer, only nudged his big black horse forward. This one appeared much older, his face weathered and not a hint of softness on his features. When he rode by Meredith, it was like an arctic wind blowing by, cold and impersonal. Definitely not a friendly man.

      The first drops of rain pelted from the sky. They struck the ground like wet bullets, tapped on her bonnet and plinked in the enormous puddle at her feet. The prairie stretched around them to the horizon without more than a single barn in sight, one big curtain of rain. With no one else on the road, she suddenly felt vulnerable. A small hand crept into hers—Minnie’s.

      “Do you reckon they are outlaws?” Her littlest sister’s whisper was incredulous, and her big blue eyes widened with excitement.

      It was hard to tell the manner of man Shane Connelly was, and even harder to guess at the older man who was hitching the two horses alongside their gray mare. But Shane must have heard Minnie’s whisper, for he glanced over the wheel well and let his eyes twinkle at her. Humor danced in those dark blue depths and told her all she needed to know about the man.

      “No, I reckon he’s a never-do-well with an appalling reputation,” Meredith answered wryly.

      “True.” Shane’s gravelly tone deepened as he chuckled. “I am one sorry renegade.”

      “Are you like Robin Hood?” Minnie boldly asked. “Do you help those down on their luck?”

      “I have been known to aid a lovely country miss or two, if the peril is great.” When Shane rubbed a hand over his gelding’s muzzle, a softness came over him.

      A kind man, then. Hard not to like that.

      “You’ve got a pretty horse,” Minnie spoke up. “What’s his name?”

      “This is Hobo. He’s an—”

      “Appaloosa.” The single word tumbled across Meredith’s tongue. “He’s beautiful.”

      “You know of the breed?”

      “My father has a fondness for Western lore,” she answered, her face heating. Was she really blushing? “Perhaps I do, too.”

      “Perhaps?” He questioned, his dimples deepening.

      “Fine. I love everything Western, but it’s not ladylike to admit it and my mother would have an apoplexy if she heard me say it.”

      “Then it’s best not to tell her.” He winked, and opened his mouth about to say something else when the other man hollered out to him.

      “That’s enough, Romeo. I’ve got the horses hitched. Time to push.”

      “Gotta go.” Shane waded to the buggy box and positioned his hands on one side of the soiled fender. “You two ladies might want to hop onto the grass.”

      “I told you. I intend to help.” She mimicked his stance on the other side of the buggy by bracing her feet and placing her hands. “If this happens again, I want to know what to do.”

      “I really don’t think—” His argument was cut off as a “Git up!” from Braden rang from the front of the buggy.

      Horse hooves clamored on sodden, wet earth. The vehicle rocked forward and then back. Another “Git up!” and the buggy rolled forward again. The mud gripped the wheels, refusing to let go.

      A little help please, Lord. She prayed and pushed with all her might, fearing there was no way the vehicle would move. She fought visions of their little driving buggy stuck here in the middle of the main road to town for the rest of the rainy season. Folks would have to somehow maneuver around it, muttering about that Worthington girl who had the poor sense to have dropped out of finishing school.

      “Harder!” Braden shouted as he tromped through the mud and grabbed the bumper nearest to her. Even Minnie took a position and pushed. The buggy rocked again, almost out, before it sloshed back into the muck.

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