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Authors: Kristen Heitzmann
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exactly.
But the cold was intense and she started to waver. It was a tremendous relief when he stopped once again to let the horses blow. Instead of jumping down, she set the book aside and dug her fingers back into her pockets. They throbbed with cold, sending pain up her forearms.
Quillan came around and reached up for her. Before she could pull her hands free, he’d gripped her waist and swung her down from the box. She fell against him on unsteady legs, and he caught, then released her.
“We’ll eat here.”
They had come down far enough that the snow shower had ceased and the temperature had risen a little. Would he build a fire and cook something hot? Did he expect her to? He unfastened the tarp and reached into the bed. He retrieved a sack and, from it, pulled biscuits and jerked beef, along with a couple of dried apples. It looked as unappetizing as anything she’d yet eaten in Crystal.
He must have seen her thoughts. “No, it’s not a banquet. But it’s how we do it on the road.”
“Can’t we light a fire and—”
“Not if you want to make it back tonight. This is the quick part. It’ll be slower with a full load.”
Trying not to show the anguish that thought caused her, she took the food he offered. “How much longer to Fairplay?”
“An hour. Unless the wind picks up. We can’t keep the pace against a head wind.” He stooped and gave the dog the same fare as they.
Carina bit the hard, dry biscuit. It tasted like dust. No flavor at all, only hard, powdery chunks on her tongue. “Is this really food, or do you just pretend?”
That earned his rogue’s smile. “I’ll give Mrs. Barton your compliments.”
“Surely she can do better than this.” She waved the biscuit with disdain.
“Not with hardtack. It’s made to keep, to withstand the journey.”
She forced herself to swallow. “I could caulk my walls with it.”
“No doubt.” He reached in again and brought out a small water barrel, then retrieved a tin cup. He dipped and handed the cup her way.
She drank greedily, washing the biscuit residue from her mouth and throat, then noticed he was waiting. She handed back the cup and he dipped water for himself. It seemed strangely intimate when he brought the same cup to his lips. His throat worked up and down as he swallowed; the shadow of beard was dark halfway down his neck. To her knowledge, he hadn’t shaved since yesterday.
He looked wild and free, and she tried to picture him in the suit he’d worn for their wedding. Seeing him now in the buckskin coat and woolen shirt and jeans, she couldn’t envision it. Besides, she’d been dazed and wonderstruck at her wedding.
This was real. This was her husband, this man of the road. What would it feel like to kiss his beard-roughened face? Looking away, she put the jerky into her mouth and gripped it with her teeth. Wiggling it up and down while yanking, she bit through and chewed.
What would Mamma say to such fare? But then, what would Mamma say to any of it? A wash of guilt swept her. She hadn’t written in two months. Mamma must be sick with worry. But Carina didn’t know how to tell her or Papa that she’d married Quillan Shepard instead of Flavio Caldrone, her distant cousin and childhood love.
Quillan was an outsider. He was not Italian, not highborn, not Catholic, and certainly not one Papa would have chosen. Was he one she would have chosen had circumstance not driven her to it? Yes, her heart cried. But she knew it would never have happened anywhere but Crystal.
She fought the jerky for another bite. She was losing her appetite. She gnawed the bite, then the dried apple. Then she drank another cup of water. They’d eaten the whole meal standing, but the thought never occurred to her to sit. To be up on her legs, to be off her backside— this was unspeakable relief.
When she finished her drink, she walked briskly back and forth along the wagon while Quillan fed and watered the horses. A raven cawed overhead,
But the cold was intense and she started to waver. It was a tremendous relief when he stopped once again to let the horses blow. Instead of jumping down, she set the book aside and dug her fingers back into her pockets. They throbbed with cold, sending pain up her forearms.
Quillan came around and reached up for her. Before she could pull her hands free, he’d gripped her waist and swung her down from the box. She fell against him on unsteady legs, and he caught, then released her.
“We’ll eat here.”
They had come down far enough that the snow shower had ceased and the temperature had risen a little. Would he build a fire and cook something hot? Did he expect her to? He unfastened the tarp and reached into the bed. He retrieved a sack and, from it, pulled biscuits and jerked beef, along with a couple of dried apples. It looked as unappetizing as anything she’d yet eaten in Crystal.
He must have seen her thoughts. “No, it’s not a banquet. But it’s how we do it on the road.”
“Can’t we light a fire and—”
“Not if you want to make it back tonight. This is the quick part. It’ll be slower with a full load.”
Trying not to show the anguish that thought caused her, she took the food he offered. “How much longer to Fairplay?”
“An hour. Unless the wind picks up. We can’t keep the pace against a head wind.” He stooped and gave the dog the same fare as they.
Carina bit the hard, dry biscuit. It tasted like dust. No flavor at all, only hard, powdery chunks on her tongue. “Is this really food, or do you just pretend?”
That earned his rogue’s smile. “I’ll give Mrs. Barton your compliments.”
“Surely she can do better than this.” She waved the biscuit with disdain.
“Not with hardtack. It’s made to keep, to withstand the journey.”
She forced herself to swallow. “I could caulk my walls with it.”
“No doubt.” He reached in again and brought out a small water barrel, then retrieved a tin cup. He dipped and handed the cup her way.
She drank greedily, washing the biscuit residue from her mouth and throat, then noticed he was waiting. She handed back the cup and he dipped water for himself. It seemed strangely intimate when he brought the same cup to his lips. His throat worked up and down as he swallowed; the shadow of beard was dark halfway down his neck. To her knowledge, he hadn’t shaved since yesterday.
He looked wild and free, and she tried to picture him in the suit he’d worn for their wedding. Seeing him now in the buckskin coat and woolen shirt and jeans, she couldn’t envision it. Besides, she’d been dazed and wonderstruck at her wedding.
This was real. This was her husband, this man of the road. What would it feel like to kiss his beard-roughened face? Looking away, she put the jerky into her mouth and gripped it with her teeth. Wiggling it up and down while yanking, she bit through and chewed.
What would Mamma say to such fare? But then, what would Mamma say to any of it? A wash of guilt swept her. She hadn’t written in two months. Mamma must be sick with worry. But Carina didn’t know how to tell her or Papa that she’d married Quillan Shepard instead of Flavio Caldrone, her distant cousin and childhood love.
Quillan was an outsider. He was not Italian, not highborn, not Catholic, and certainly not one Papa would have chosen. Was he one she would have chosen had circumstance not driven her to it? Yes, her heart cried. But she knew it would never have happened anywhere but Crystal.
She fought the jerky for another bite. She was losing her appetite. She gnawed the bite, then the dried apple. Then she drank another cup of water. They’d eaten the whole meal standing, but the thought never occurred to her to sit. To be up on her legs, to be off her backside— this was unspeakable relief.
When she finished her drink, she walked briskly back and forth along the wagon while Quillan fed and watered the horses. A raven cawed overhead,
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