Read Online Finding Stefanie by Susan May Warren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan May Warren
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the local public defender?” She smiled remembering Lincoln’s words. That’s right. Just call her the Defender of the Oppressed. Besides, someone had to care about these kids.
She snagged her pick in her long hair, and it went flying across the living room. She didn’t bother to look for it, just finger-combed the rest. She caught her reflection in the dark window, then got up to check out her bruise.
She bet Elise Fontaine never got a bruise. Elise Fontaine probably didn’t wear thermal underwear to bed, probably didn’t have makeup from graduation still in her bathroom, half-used, and probably got her hair cut more often than every two years. Stefanie stood at the mirror, smoothing out her thermal jammies, checking out the curves—or lack thereof—sucking in her stomach, straightening her shoulders.
She shook her head. Who was she trying to kid? Lincoln Cash, for all his charm, wouldn’t notice a girl like her. She was just a ranch hand. A horse rescuer.
Defender of the Oppressed.
She wasn’t sure what identity fit her best. Tonight she’d been proud of herself. For the first time in years, for a second, she’d felt exactly, perfectly right, standing between Gideon and the world.
Toe-to-toe with Lincoln Cash. She thought of her cutting words about his name and cringed. She hoped she hadn’t wounded him. Much.
But stars like Lincoln didn’t wound easily, did they? After years in the tabloids, he had to have the skin of an armadillo. All the same, she wanted to hide under a rain barrel. Next time she saw him, she’d give him a second chance to be a nice guy.
Stefanie climbed onto the sofa, preferring not to fold it out, and tucked her mother’s afghan over her.
A splinter of shame dug deeper as she remembered her parting shot about sleeping in Idaho. She hoped he’d found a place at the Buffalo B and B.
She never should have let Lincoln get under her skin, despite his arrogance. She’d acted about thirteen and like a brokenhearted fan.
She most definitely wasn’t a fan anymore.
And she certainly didn’t entertain any fantasies of her and the magnificent Lincoln Cash riding off into the sunset together. In fact, she could probably delete any romantic notions of riding off anywhere with anyone. Except maybe JB. But she’d have to be unconscious before that happened.
Most of all, she’d have to remember that movie stars didn’t fallfor plain ranch girls who knew how to rope cattle but didn’t have the first clue how to balance in high heels.
No, she’d be like Dutch. Live forever on the ranch. Single. Alone.
Lord, help me learn to be content. Please fill these empty places. . . .
Upstairs, she heard one of the kids get up, shuffle into the bathroom, close the door.
Is this an answer to prayer, Lord ? She closed her eyes. Please. Please let them stay.
“Who is he, Libs?”
Libby took the toast from the toaster, put it on a plate, and skimmed low-fat butter from the tub with her knife. “Who is who, Daddy?”
Her father, Duncan Pike, pastor of Phillips Community Church, pulled out the vinyl-cushioned chair and sat down, reaching for the coffeepot she’d set in the middle of the table. She’d been trying to ease him off fully caffeinated coffee after his mild heart attack a couple years back. Although he had legs that resembled Montana fence posts, the extra helpings of pot roast through the years had settled over his belt, and deep inside, she feared one day coming home to find him dead from a coronary.
Thankfully, she’d tricked him into half-decaf coffee—for all he knew, he drank three cups of fully loaded Colombian roast every morning. It was her little secret.
In fact, the secrets had started to pile up in the last week. Secrets like how she’d begun to care for Gideon. Care in a way she’d never felt before.
“You know who.” Her father picked up the Sheridan paper, reading the headlines.
The dawn poured through the huge picture window that looked out onto the
She snagged her pick in her long hair, and it went flying across the living room. She didn’t bother to look for it, just finger-combed the rest. She caught her reflection in the dark window, then got up to check out her bruise.
She bet Elise Fontaine never got a bruise. Elise Fontaine probably didn’t wear thermal underwear to bed, probably didn’t have makeup from graduation still in her bathroom, half-used, and probably got her hair cut more often than every two years. Stefanie stood at the mirror, smoothing out her thermal jammies, checking out the curves—or lack thereof—sucking in her stomach, straightening her shoulders.
She shook her head. Who was she trying to kid? Lincoln Cash, for all his charm, wouldn’t notice a girl like her. She was just a ranch hand. A horse rescuer.
Defender of the Oppressed.
She wasn’t sure what identity fit her best. Tonight she’d been proud of herself. For the first time in years, for a second, she’d felt exactly, perfectly right, standing between Gideon and the world.
Toe-to-toe with Lincoln Cash. She thought of her cutting words about his name and cringed. She hoped she hadn’t wounded him. Much.
But stars like Lincoln didn’t wound easily, did they? After years in the tabloids, he had to have the skin of an armadillo. All the same, she wanted to hide under a rain barrel. Next time she saw him, she’d give him a second chance to be a nice guy.
Stefanie climbed onto the sofa, preferring not to fold it out, and tucked her mother’s afghan over her.
A splinter of shame dug deeper as she remembered her parting shot about sleeping in Idaho. She hoped he’d found a place at the Buffalo B and B.
She never should have let Lincoln get under her skin, despite his arrogance. She’d acted about thirteen and like a brokenhearted fan.
She most definitely wasn’t a fan anymore.
And she certainly didn’t entertain any fantasies of her and the magnificent Lincoln Cash riding off into the sunset together. In fact, she could probably delete any romantic notions of riding off anywhere with anyone. Except maybe JB. But she’d have to be unconscious before that happened.
Most of all, she’d have to remember that movie stars didn’t fallfor plain ranch girls who knew how to rope cattle but didn’t have the first clue how to balance in high heels.
No, she’d be like Dutch. Live forever on the ranch. Single. Alone.
Lord, help me learn to be content. Please fill these empty places. . . .
Upstairs, she heard one of the kids get up, shuffle into the bathroom, close the door.
Is this an answer to prayer, Lord ? She closed her eyes. Please. Please let them stay.
“Who is he, Libs?”
Libby took the toast from the toaster, put it on a plate, and skimmed low-fat butter from the tub with her knife. “Who is who, Daddy?”
Her father, Duncan Pike, pastor of Phillips Community Church, pulled out the vinyl-cushioned chair and sat down, reaching for the coffeepot she’d set in the middle of the table. She’d been trying to ease him off fully caffeinated coffee after his mild heart attack a couple years back. Although he had legs that resembled Montana fence posts, the extra helpings of pot roast through the years had settled over his belt, and deep inside, she feared one day coming home to find him dead from a coronary.
Thankfully, she’d tricked him into half-decaf coffee—for all he knew, he drank three cups of fully loaded Colombian roast every morning. It was her little secret.
In fact, the secrets had started to pile up in the last week. Secrets like how she’d begun to care for Gideon. Care in a way she’d never felt before.
“You know who.” Her father picked up the Sheridan paper, reading the headlines.
The dawn poured through the huge picture window that looked out onto the
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