Read Online Rexanne Becnel by When Lightning Strikes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: When Lightning Strikes
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she turned toward the wagons, eager, for once, to begin the supper preparations. But first she would make herself presentable.
While her father unhitched the oxen, she rummaged in her box for her comb and a bit of ribbon. She should speak to her father about inviting Tanner, she told herself as with deft fingers she unwound her hair. But that would only give him the chance to say no. On the other hand, if she extended the invitation without her father’s approval, he’d be extremely angry. He might even be rude to Tanner. Of course her father hadn’t hesitated to invite Reverend Harrison without discussing it with her, she reminded herself. Still, it might be the most politic thing for her to extend the invitation in her father’s presence. She could turn to him innocently and ask his permission.
Abby grimaced, then thrust the horn comb repeatedly down the long length of her hair. How devious she was becoming. First willful, now devious. What would her mother think?
She was just freeing the last of her tangles when the tattoo hoofbeat of an approaching horse alerted her.
“Not yet. I’m not ready,” she muttered, grabbing up the ribbon. She hadn’t rebraided her hair or anything. Panicked, she pulled the ribbon under her hair and tied it so that the thick mass at least stayed out of her face. Then, with heart pounding and palms sweating, she poked her head outside the back of the wagon.
5
A S TANNER RODE UP to the Morgans’ wagon, all he could think was that he didn’t want her to be Willard Hogan’s granddaughter. But the field was narrowing down. Today he’d learned enough to rule out the Hardwick girl—her father couldn’t read or write. The Callahan girl and her father were Black Irish, not Bliss’s coloring at all. That left a field of five, and Abby was at the top of the pack.
Only he didn’t want it to be her.
That unsettling realization brought a frown to Tanner’s brow. But he covered it by touching the wide brim of his felt hat with one hand. “I brought you a haunch of antelope.”
“Antelope?”
He watched the expressions that flitted over Abby’s face. Curiosity. Doubt. Then, when her long lashes lifted and she met his watchful gaze, embarrassment.
Embarrassment. That was an emotion he didn’t usually associate with women. But then, she was not really his type of woman, as he’d told himself over and over again. He’d take a buxom blonde over a slender brunette, and a lady of the evening over a Sunday-go-to-meeting type any day of the week. Yet here he was, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle at the very sight of the proper Miss Abigail Morgan.
Then again, when had he ever had anything to do with proper women? His mother, despite her good heart, had still been a common
whore. No use denying that fact. Except for a few youthful flings, every woman he’d had he’d paid well for her efforts. But this woman … this woman was the kind of woman you married and made a home with. He didn’t have a home. At least not yet.
“You cook it like you would venison,” he finally said, killing his confusing thoughts. “You can salt the extra. Or dry it for jerky.”
She nodded, causing her heavy hair to fall in two shining arcs on either side of her face. God, but it was long, he thought, and it gleamed in the slanting light like the finest silk. Once more he shifted, but he hid it by sidling the weary Mac nearer the wagon gate. “Here.” He untied the haunch from his saddle horn and thrust it toward her.
She stepped from beneath the wagon tent to take the hefty haunch. As she stood there clutching the crudely butchered piece of meat, Tanner was struck by incongruities of her appearance. She could have been a dark-haired Indian woman, receiving the bounty of her man’s hunting trip. But her dress proclaimed her as straight-laced and proper as they came, covering her from chin to wrists to toes. Only her face and hands showed. And yet those were tanned to a warm color not typically
While her father unhitched the oxen, she rummaged in her box for her comb and a bit of ribbon. She should speak to her father about inviting Tanner, she told herself as with deft fingers she unwound her hair. But that would only give him the chance to say no. On the other hand, if she extended the invitation without her father’s approval, he’d be extremely angry. He might even be rude to Tanner. Of course her father hadn’t hesitated to invite Reverend Harrison without discussing it with her, she reminded herself. Still, it might be the most politic thing for her to extend the invitation in her father’s presence. She could turn to him innocently and ask his permission.
Abby grimaced, then thrust the horn comb repeatedly down the long length of her hair. How devious she was becoming. First willful, now devious. What would her mother think?
She was just freeing the last of her tangles when the tattoo hoofbeat of an approaching horse alerted her.
“Not yet. I’m not ready,” she muttered, grabbing up the ribbon. She hadn’t rebraided her hair or anything. Panicked, she pulled the ribbon under her hair and tied it so that the thick mass at least stayed out of her face. Then, with heart pounding and palms sweating, she poked her head outside the back of the wagon.
5
A S TANNER RODE UP to the Morgans’ wagon, all he could think was that he didn’t want her to be Willard Hogan’s granddaughter. But the field was narrowing down. Today he’d learned enough to rule out the Hardwick girl—her father couldn’t read or write. The Callahan girl and her father were Black Irish, not Bliss’s coloring at all. That left a field of five, and Abby was at the top of the pack.
Only he didn’t want it to be her.
That unsettling realization brought a frown to Tanner’s brow. But he covered it by touching the wide brim of his felt hat with one hand. “I brought you a haunch of antelope.”
“Antelope?”
He watched the expressions that flitted over Abby’s face. Curiosity. Doubt. Then, when her long lashes lifted and she met his watchful gaze, embarrassment.
Embarrassment. That was an emotion he didn’t usually associate with women. But then, she was not really his type of woman, as he’d told himself over and over again. He’d take a buxom blonde over a slender brunette, and a lady of the evening over a Sunday-go-to-meeting type any day of the week. Yet here he was, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle at the very sight of the proper Miss Abigail Morgan.
Then again, when had he ever had anything to do with proper women? His mother, despite her good heart, had still been a common
whore. No use denying that fact. Except for a few youthful flings, every woman he’d had he’d paid well for her efforts. But this woman … this woman was the kind of woman you married and made a home with. He didn’t have a home. At least not yet.
“You cook it like you would venison,” he finally said, killing his confusing thoughts. “You can salt the extra. Or dry it for jerky.”
She nodded, causing her heavy hair to fall in two shining arcs on either side of her face. God, but it was long, he thought, and it gleamed in the slanting light like the finest silk. Once more he shifted, but he hid it by sidling the weary Mac nearer the wagon gate. “Here.” He untied the haunch from his saddle horn and thrust it toward her.
She stepped from beneath the wagon tent to take the hefty haunch. As she stood there clutching the crudely butchered piece of meat, Tanner was struck by incongruities of her appearance. She could have been a dark-haired Indian woman, receiving the bounty of her man’s hunting trip. But her dress proclaimed her as straight-laced and proper as they came, covering her from chin to wrists to toes. Only her face and hands showed. And yet those were tanned to a warm color not typically
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