Read Online Her Wyoming Man by Cheryl St.john - Free Book Online

silent?”
    He nodded. “She was still a baby when Robby was born and her mother died. She cries when she’s hurt or frightened, but she never asks for anything.”
    Ella studied the little girl. She was well cared for and had advantages many children didn’t. Losing her mother had undoubtedly been traumatic, but it didn’t explain her silence.
    Ella settled on the floor near the footstool. “Do you suppose I could have tea, too?”
    Grace looked her over skeptically before picking up a miniature cup and saucer and handing them to her. The child understood and responded, so there was nothing wrong with her hearing.
    “Thank you. I don’t suppose you have any cookies?”
    Grace nodded and picked something invisible from the upholstered footstool and extended her fingers toward Ella as though she held a treat.
    Ella pretended to take it and try a bite. “It’s delicious. What kind of cookie is it?”
    Grace merely tilted her head to the side as though she didn’t know and went back to feeding her dolls.
    “Definitely oatmeal with raisins,” Ella said. “They’re my favorites. How did you know that?”
    Grace said nothing, but handed her another imaginary cookie.
    Later, Ella accompanied Nathan when he tucked the children into their beds in the nursery. She studied the room, noting their books and toys and Grace’s row of dolls. Ella had never had a doll. She’d had daytime lessons and voice lessons and practiced French in the evenings. She couldn’t recall idle moments until her studies had ended at age sixteen and she’d been alone mornings while the household slept.
    On a low round table sat some sort of boat with a roof, made of wood and painted to appear as though it had dozens of windows in the cabin area. On its deck and around the outside stood a couple dozen pairs of animals. She recognized the sheep and giraffe Robby had played with in church.
    Nathan spoke softly to each of his offspring, reaching for a stuffed bear that Robby requested. By what stroke of fortune had these children been born to a man who took an active role in their care? She supposed she’d comprehended that other children had fathers. It was a natural fact that everyone had been sired by someone, but how many people knew a father like this? She never really considered it. As Nathan kissed his children, she wondered if Ansel Murdock had tucked in his children when they’d been young. During the past few years, where had he told his wife and sons he was going on Monday and Friday evenings?
    The Lantrys were a lifetime away from everything she’d known. Living among them was like being dropped into a fairy tale.
    Nathan turned down the wicks in the lamps and reached for her hand to lead her from the room.
    What would she do if Nathan routinely left for evenings out?
    A startling question loomed in her mind. Were there parlor houses and dinner clubs in Sweetwater?
    “Would you like to keep me company for the rest of the evening?” he asked as they stood in the upstairs hall.
    She nodded. “Yes.”
    “Perhaps you’d like to bring along a book or your needlework?”
    She could sew enough to do a quick mend, but had never tried her hand at stitchery. “I’ll read,” she replied, quickly heading for her room to find a book.
    Once they were again in his study, he said, “You may spend your evenings however you like, Ella.”
    “I like it in here,” she replied. “As long as I’m not disturbing you.”
    “Of course you’re not disturbing me.” He settled on a leather armchair and glanced at her book. “What are you reading?”
    “It’s an account of an explorer named Champlain. He lived among the Huron Indians to study them. He adopted their language and customs, and became familiar with the landscape and water routes. His study of geography and Indian life inspired many men after him.”
    “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Nathan gestured for her to show him the book, and she handed it over. He glanced at the cover and