Read Online Summer Breeze by Catherine Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

the glass? She would never feel safe until the window was repaired and boarded up again.
    Anger roiled within her. But before she could get a firm hold on it, worry for Darby assailed her again. If the old man truly was hurt, the least Joseph Paxton could do was apprise her of his condition. Had anyone fetched the doctor? How bad was the wound? And who was caring for the poor old fellow?
    Rachel wanted to jerk the towels away from the opening and demand that Joseph Paxton give her answers. But was that even his real name? He'd come here with another man. For all she knew, they could be outlaws. The one she'd seen definitely had the look of a scapegrace. Men who wore sidearms were a dime a dozen in No Name, but there was nothing ordinary about the way he wore his, a pearl-handled Colt. 45, strapped low on his thigh. Rachel had read enough novels to know that a gunslinger wore his weapon that way to minimize the distance of reach, thereby maxi-mizing his speed at the draw.
    She stared at the towels, which offered her little privacy and even less protection. Darby. She had to find out how he fared. Only how? When she contemplated tearing the towels away to confront Joseph Paxton again, she started to shake.
    He wasn't really a large man, she assured herself. But he had a large presence, every inch of his lean body roped with muscle, his broad shoulders and well-padded chest tapering to a slim waist and narrow hips. His eyes were particularly arresting, an ordinary blue yet razor sharp, giving the impression that he missed nothing. In the lamplight, they had shimmered like quicksilver.
    A frown pleated Rachel's brow as she tried to recall the rest of his face. Exposure to the elements had burnished his skin; she remembered that much. But she couldn't for the life of her envision his features. He'd worn a sand-colored Stetson with a wide brim that dipped down in front.
    Perhaps that was why. She could remember his hair, which was as blond as her own, only as straight as a bullet on a windless day. Shoulder length, if she recollected right, and tucked behind his ears.
    The rapid creak of the rocker told Rachel that she was pushing too fast again. She brought the chair to a stop and then nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a low growl. The towels over the hole moved, and the next instant, a liver-colored nose lifted a bottom corner of the linen.
    The dog. She watched the animal's nostrils flare to pick up her scent. Shortly thereafter, another inch of white blaze on the canine's nose became visible.
    "No!" Rachel cried softly. "Stop that. "
    But the reddish-gold dog kept pushing until the bottom of one towel popped free and a slat snapped. His head poked through. Rachel leaped up from the rocker. Leaving the gun on the sofa within easy reach, she advanced on the archway.
    "Bad, bad dog, " she whispered. "I don't want you in here. Away with you. Go on. "
    Rachel could have sworn that the silly animal grinned. And then he let loose with more growls, working his jaws so the sounds changed pitch, almost as if he were talking. When she reached to push him back, he whined and licked her hands.
    Rachel's heart sank. He was such a sweet, friendly fellow, and he truly didn't mean her any harm.
    He only wanted to say hello. She had always adored dogs. One of the great loves of her life had been Denver, a huge, yellow mongrel with soulful brown eyes. Many had been the time that Rachel wished the killer might have at least spared the dog's life. Denver, her special friend. The silly mutt had rarely left her side. In the end, his unfailing loyalty had been the death of him.
    The thought always made Rachel sad. Unlike the other members of her family, Denver could have run and saved himself. Instead, he'd stayed to protect her and earned himself a slug between the eyes.
    As though her hands had a will of their own, Rachel found herself fondling Buddy's silky ears.
    Dogs were wonderfully uncomplicated creatures. No subterfuge or pretense.