Read Online Sweet Boundless by Kristen Heitzmann - Free Book Online Page A

down, down, until it was lost in the landscape.
    “You don’t seem dizzy to me.”
    “I’m not.” But it was too personal to share why with him. Father Charboneau, yes—but Quillan? He would laugh, scoff, and not believe her. She turned and walked to the black lead horse on the right. The breath from its nostrils turned white in the chilled air. She stroked its muzzle. “Have a good rest, Jack. You’ve done well.”
    The horse nuzzled her. Laughing, she walked around to Jock and encouraged him with a pat. “Such strong leaders. You know the road, eh?”
    The two Clydesdales behind the blacks towered over her, tremendous specimens of muscle with shaggy hooves. Their eyes were mild on either side of the white streak down their muzzles.
    “What is this one called?”
    “Socrates.”
    She touched his shoulder, stroked it with her palm. “And that one is Plato?”
    Looking at her over the harness that separated the two pairs, Quillan shook his head. “Nope. Homer.”
    So he had replaced his first pair of Clydesdales after the flood. Alan Tavish had told her their names, Peter and Ginger. She liked this pair better. “How long do they rest?”
    “Awhile.”
    It was nonspecific, but maybe it would be long enough to work the pain out of her back. Coming up to Crystal, she’d driven a small wagon with a deep seat to support her while she drove. This freight wagon was a dreadful ride. How did he stand it so long, so many days at a stretch?
    Surreptitiously, she rubbed her lower back and walked along the wagon, hoping Quillan didn’t see. The beauty had driven away the pain, but now it returned. She tried to focus on the brilliant gold aspens with white trunks that stood out among the tall pine spires.
    The snow still flew in sparkling waves. She was cold; her ears ached with it. She climbed up and pulled the shawl from her carpetbag. She tied it over her head as Quillan paced, working the kinks from his legs. She watched him, wondering what he thought, what he did on these drives all alone.
    He caught her looking, and for a moment their gaze locked. Then he headed for the wagon. “Don’t get down. We’ll go on now.”
    Carina sighed too softly for him to hear as she settled into her space. Sam climbed up beside her. Quillan took the reins and gid-dapped the horses. Already the ache started in her back again and her seat was no better. Bene. She’d asked to come. She wouldn’t whine. The horses would need to blow again—soon, she prayed. To distract herself from the discomfort, she took Silas Marner from the bag.
    Quillan glanced over. “What’s that?”
    “George Eliot. Silas Marner . Have you read it?”
    He shook his head.
    “Shall I read it aloud?”
    “If you want.”
    She settled back and opened the book. It was hard to focus with the tiny snowflakes still swirling, but she held the shawl to block most of it and began. Quillan kept his gaze on the road, his expression fixed and a little fierce. The wind picked up, and she had to read loudly to be heard. She paused often to catch her breath and soothe her voice.
    During one pause, Quillan brushed the side of his face with his sleeve. “He has an interesting style.”
    “It’s a woman.”
    “I meant the author.”
    “I know.”
    He turned briefly. “Named George?”
    Carina shrugged. “What’s a name? If I chose to be called Charles, would I be any less what I am?”
    He eyed her a moment. “How do you know?”
    “I can tell. Certain phrases, certain . . . insights.”
    “Well, of course, male authors have no insights.”
    She shrugged. “They’re different.” She picked up the book and shielded it once again from the sparkling snow dust.
    Her voice grew hoarse and her fingers raw from holding the book, but she sensed an intensity in Quillan that kept her reading. It was as though he more than listened; he absorbed her words. If he didn’t hear her clearly, he asked her to repeat it. And she did, sometimes twice before he got it