Read Online Just Once by Jill Marie Landis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Marie Landis
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still be thinking about that damned kiss. He didn’t even know her name.
And he couldn’t very well think of her as St. Theresa forever.
“What’s your name?”
“Jemma O’—” Her eyes widened. “I would prefer not to tell you my last name just yet. At least until we’re out of New Orleans.”
“You wanted for anything, Jemma-O?”
She shook her head and smiled that infernal angelic smile. “It’s just Jemma. And no, I’m not wanted for anything. But … with the threat of the emir’s men always hanging over my head, I feel the less you know, the better for both of us.”
If nothing else, she was one hell of a storyteller. Thinking of the glittering gold piece, he offered, “I’ll take you as far as Sandy Shoals in Kentucky. From there you can join another party traveling up to Canada.”
He cursed himself even as he made the offer. She was bound to slow him down, just when he was set on getting back with his brother’s whiskey money, determined to announce to everyone in his family circle that he was finally heading west.
He was such a damn idiot.
“Here, then.” She held out the gold piece.
“I’ll have to use part of it for your traveling supplies,” he told her. His fingers slipped across her palm as he took the coin. Hunter shoved it into the possibles bag at his waist. The small leather pouch held an assortment of life’s necessary items: flints, money, a chaw of tobacco, the lucky arrowhead he’d dug out of the old bear who had tried to eat Jed Taylor before Hunter came along to kill it, the money he’d made from Luther’s whiskey.
Turning away from her, he nudged the stained, moss-filled mattress with the toe of his moccasin. He would have preferred making a lean-to in the open to sleeping in this flea-bitten room that was no doubt crawling with bedbugs, too. He hated towns—hated the crowds and the noise and the filth that came from so many people congregated in one place, but he couldn’t very well have had the girl bed down on the street.
“Are you related to Daniel Boone?”
He didn’t miss the awe in her voice; when he looked up, he found her staring at him with something akin to hero worship in her eyes.
“He’s a distant cousin. Real distant. Never met him.”
“My grandfather met him once,” she said.
“Your grandfather ever live in Algiers, too?” He couldn’t resist, but the question didn’t bother her at all.
“For a while. There’s only one bed here,” she reminded him unnecessarily.
Hunter sighed. “
I’ll
sleep on the floor.”
“Oh, no. I’ll sleep on the floor,” she quickly volunteered.
He looked at the mattress again and guessed there was more than kindness behind her gesture of goodwill. He didn’t want the damn mattress either.
It was amicably decided that both of them would sleep on the floor on either side of the pallet. He gave her one of the blankets. She wrinkled her nose at it but didn’t complain as she spread it on the floor. Wrapping herself in her damp cape, she lay down on the hard planks and closed her eyes. Within seconds after she had stopped talking—which in itself, he thought, was a miracle—she had fallen asleep.
Before he blew out the lamp, Hunter retrieved his Kentucky long rifle and loaded it with dry powder. He would keep it beside him while he slept. A breeze wafted through the window. The lamplight fluttered. The rain had become a full-fledged storm, but it didn’t seem to bother the girl. She was still asleep with her head cradled on her arm.
He snuffed out the lamp and lay down. The noise outside the room had tapered off to an occasional shout or the crash of a bottle. Lightning flickered, illuminating the room in ghostly silver.
Hunter lay on his side, his shoulder already aching where it pressed against the hard floor, listening to the irritating, incessant
plop, plop, plop
of water as it dripped into various puddles around the room. They would be lucky if they didn’t drown in their sleep.
He
And he couldn’t very well think of her as St. Theresa forever.
“What’s your name?”
“Jemma O’—” Her eyes widened. “I would prefer not to tell you my last name just yet. At least until we’re out of New Orleans.”
“You wanted for anything, Jemma-O?”
She shook her head and smiled that infernal angelic smile. “It’s just Jemma. And no, I’m not wanted for anything. But … with the threat of the emir’s men always hanging over my head, I feel the less you know, the better for both of us.”
If nothing else, she was one hell of a storyteller. Thinking of the glittering gold piece, he offered, “I’ll take you as far as Sandy Shoals in Kentucky. From there you can join another party traveling up to Canada.”
He cursed himself even as he made the offer. She was bound to slow him down, just when he was set on getting back with his brother’s whiskey money, determined to announce to everyone in his family circle that he was finally heading west.
He was such a damn idiot.
“Here, then.” She held out the gold piece.
“I’ll have to use part of it for your traveling supplies,” he told her. His fingers slipped across her palm as he took the coin. Hunter shoved it into the possibles bag at his waist. The small leather pouch held an assortment of life’s necessary items: flints, money, a chaw of tobacco, the lucky arrowhead he’d dug out of the old bear who had tried to eat Jed Taylor before Hunter came along to kill it, the money he’d made from Luther’s whiskey.
Turning away from her, he nudged the stained, moss-filled mattress with the toe of his moccasin. He would have preferred making a lean-to in the open to sleeping in this flea-bitten room that was no doubt crawling with bedbugs, too. He hated towns—hated the crowds and the noise and the filth that came from so many people congregated in one place, but he couldn’t very well have had the girl bed down on the street.
“Are you related to Daniel Boone?”
He didn’t miss the awe in her voice; when he looked up, he found her staring at him with something akin to hero worship in her eyes.
“He’s a distant cousin. Real distant. Never met him.”
“My grandfather met him once,” she said.
“Your grandfather ever live in Algiers, too?” He couldn’t resist, but the question didn’t bother her at all.
“For a while. There’s only one bed here,” she reminded him unnecessarily.
Hunter sighed. “
I’ll
sleep on the floor.”
“Oh, no. I’ll sleep on the floor,” she quickly volunteered.
He looked at the mattress again and guessed there was more than kindness behind her gesture of goodwill. He didn’t want the damn mattress either.
It was amicably decided that both of them would sleep on the floor on either side of the pallet. He gave her one of the blankets. She wrinkled her nose at it but didn’t complain as she spread it on the floor. Wrapping herself in her damp cape, she lay down on the hard planks and closed her eyes. Within seconds after she had stopped talking—which in itself, he thought, was a miracle—she had fallen asleep.
Before he blew out the lamp, Hunter retrieved his Kentucky long rifle and loaded it with dry powder. He would keep it beside him while he slept. A breeze wafted through the window. The lamplight fluttered. The rain had become a full-fledged storm, but it didn’t seem to bother the girl. She was still asleep with her head cradled on her arm.
He snuffed out the lamp and lay down. The noise outside the room had tapered off to an occasional shout or the crash of a bottle. Lightning flickered, illuminating the room in ghostly silver.
Hunter lay on his side, his shoulder already aching where it pressed against the hard floor, listening to the irritating, incessant
plop, plop, plop
of water as it dripped into various puddles around the room. They would be lucky if they didn’t drown in their sleep.
He
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