Read Online A Victorian Christmas by Catherine Palmer - Free Book Online Page B

pondered that for a moment. “He’s a very confusing man.”
    “Yes.”
    “You think he’ll live?”
    “Oh yes. He grows strong—especially after eating all that bread you baked.”
    She took a step toward the fire. “He ate it all?”
    “Mmm.” The Apache leaned back in the rocker and shut his eyes again. “He says you are the best baker of bread he ever knew.”
    A smile tugged at Fara’s lips. “Wait until he tastes my biscochitos ,” she whispered.

    “I don’t believe I’ve ever had something truly melt in my mouth before,” Hyatt said as he watched Filly pour him a second cup of tea the following afternoon. “Who taught you to bake these biscochitos ?”
    “Manuela,” the young woman said. “She’s my . . . my friend. In town.”
    He nodded. Filly was holding back. That afternoon—in spite of her obvious reluctance to spend more than a few minutes in his presence—they had sat together in the little cabin for hours. He had lured her into reading The Pilgrim’s Progress to him while he sat beside the stove. Then she had ordered him into a pair of her papa’s old denims and a flannel shirt so she could wash his traveling clothes. She returned with a batch of cookies she’d baked that morning, and they’d shared a pot of tea. It had been the best afternoon of his life.
    If it weren’t for the vast gulf between their upbringings, Hyatt would have vowed Filly was his perfect match. She was smart, witty, and beautiful. Equally important, she didn’t have the least compunction about giving him a piece of her mind when she thought he deserved it. He’d never met a woman with as much spunk.
    When she went away that evening, he found the solitude of the little cabin almost unbearable. Though the pain in his arm was intense at times, the wound was beginning to heal. But his hand was stiff and difficult to flex. He didn’t sleep well. He had little energy. Worse, he found himself anticipating his own future with a measure of dread.
    It was bad enough to think of returning to California—the empty mansion, the rounds of insufferable parties, a business he had organized so efficiently it could almost run without him. But before he could return to those wearying occupations he would be obliged to complete his mission. The idea of spending time in the presence of a stuffy heiress like Miss Fara Canaday was enough to send chills down his spine. He might have tolerated the woman had he not grown so enchanted by the high-spirited filly who had dragged him out of the snow and saved his life.
    When she knocked on the cabin door the following morning, he jumped to his feet like a kid at Christmas. His gift—the beautiful golden-haired angel of his dreams—swept into the cabin wearing a pair of buckskin trousers, a red flannel shirt three sizes too big, and a shearling coat that hung down to her knees.
    “Checkers,” she announced, sliding a wooden game board onto the table. “Old Longbones won’t play with me. Guess I’m stuck with you, buckaroo.”
    Hyatt set his hands on his hips. “I come in a poor second, do I?”
    “I reckon you do. Ever played before?” She flashed those molasses eyes at him as she thunked the bag of checkers on the table.
    “Checkers is child’s play to me. How about chess?”
    Her mouth dropped open, and he had to laugh. Within minutes they had devised a set of chess pieces from a collection of saltshakers, wood chips, and leftover biscochitos . Filly proved herself a worthy opponent. All morning and most of the afternoon, they battled over the game board. Just when Filly would crow she had him cornered, Hyatt would wiggle out of her trap. As the shadows grew long, he finally managed to box her in.
    “Check,” he announced.
    “What!” She stared at the board. “Are you sure? Are you positive?”
    “Look at my bishop. You’re done for.”
    “Don’t count on it. Just give me a minute here. I’ll figure this out.”
    Chuckling, Hyatt stood and walked over to the