Read Online The Horseman's Bride by Elizabeth Lane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Lane
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hisbreathing. Sleep was the best medicine for him, she told herself. Tanner was a powerful man. She could only hope that, with rest and fluids, his body would be strong enough to fight off the infection.
She couldn’t let herself think of any other outcome.
Gathering up his pants and boots, she took them into Mary’s room and shoved them under the bed. If he woke up and decided to leave again, it wouldn’t do to have them close by. She would get the pistol out of sight, too. Then she’d look for dry clothes. Maybe she could put on something of her grandmother’s. But what if she needed to rush outside again, or mount up and ride for help? Mary never wore pants, and Clara didn’t want to brave the storm in one of her grandmother’s housedresses. Hopefully there would be something more usable upstairs where the old clothes were stored.
After hiding the pistol behind the couch cushions, she climbed the narrow stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Rarely used now, the rooms had housed Mary’s growing brood of children. The smallest room had been converted for storage. Rough-hewn shelves held boxes of old books, canning jars, school papers, a guitar with broken strings, balls of used twine and a few worn-out toys. If Mary had saved her children’s clothes—and the frugal woman rarely discarded anything—they would most likely be here.
A large, homemade pine wood chest stood against one wall. That would be the place to find clothes, Clara reasoned. The girls’ dresses would be hopelessly out of style and a problem to ride in. But Mary had also raisedthree strapping sons. An outgrown pair of jeans or overalls and a warm shirt would do just fine.
The chest, which had no lock, did contain clothes. On top there were worn cotton dresses, petticoats, chemises and flannel nightgowns, all of them too small. Wet and shivering in the unheated room, Clara moved them aside and dug deeper. Now she found boys’ clothes, as well. But the denim overalls and flannel shirts were child-size. One by one, Clara lifted them out and held them up. Nothing here would fit her. Maybe all the larger garments had been worn to rags by the time they were outgrown.
She had nearly reached the bottom of the chest when her fingers discovered a book-size object. Its solid shape yielded to her touch with a light crackle of paper. Curious, she reached in with both hands and lifted it to the light of the small window.
It was a packet of some sort, wrapped in brown paper and bound with knotted string. An address was written on it in faded ink. In the faint light, Clara could just make it out.
Miss Hannah Gustavson
General Delivery, Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado
The return address was easier to read. The packet bore the official stamp of the U.S. Post Office in Skagway, Alaska Territory.
Wet clothes forgotten for the moment, Clara stared at the packet. It was addressed to her mother. But Hannahhad been Mrs. Judd Seavers for twenty years. This piece of mail must have been sent to her a very long time ago.
Sitting on her heels, she examined the wrapping. One end appeared to have been opened, then tucked closed again. A probing finger revealed the contents. Inside the paper wrapping, Clara could detect a tightly compressed stack of letters.
Hastily now, she replaced the clothes in the trunk and closed the lid. The voice of discretion whispered that she should replace the packet as well. But curiosity was eating her alive. She had to know what was inside.
Rain drummed against the shingled roof overhead, cascading in torrents off the eaves. She couldn’t stay here. The room was too chilly and too dim, and she needed to check on Tanner.
Holding the packet away from her wet shirt, she padded down the stairs and left it on the kitchen table. Tanner had flung off one of the quilts and was stirring feverishly, muttering as if in the grip of a bad dream. Clara straightened the covers and sponged his face with a damp sleeve. “Rest,” she whispered.
She couldn’t let herself think of any other outcome.
Gathering up his pants and boots, she took them into Mary’s room and shoved them under the bed. If he woke up and decided to leave again, it wouldn’t do to have them close by. She would get the pistol out of sight, too. Then she’d look for dry clothes. Maybe she could put on something of her grandmother’s. But what if she needed to rush outside again, or mount up and ride for help? Mary never wore pants, and Clara didn’t want to brave the storm in one of her grandmother’s housedresses. Hopefully there would be something more usable upstairs where the old clothes were stored.
After hiding the pistol behind the couch cushions, she climbed the narrow stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Rarely used now, the rooms had housed Mary’s growing brood of children. The smallest room had been converted for storage. Rough-hewn shelves held boxes of old books, canning jars, school papers, a guitar with broken strings, balls of used twine and a few worn-out toys. If Mary had saved her children’s clothes—and the frugal woman rarely discarded anything—they would most likely be here.
A large, homemade pine wood chest stood against one wall. That would be the place to find clothes, Clara reasoned. The girls’ dresses would be hopelessly out of style and a problem to ride in. But Mary had also raisedthree strapping sons. An outgrown pair of jeans or overalls and a warm shirt would do just fine.
The chest, which had no lock, did contain clothes. On top there were worn cotton dresses, petticoats, chemises and flannel nightgowns, all of them too small. Wet and shivering in the unheated room, Clara moved them aside and dug deeper. Now she found boys’ clothes, as well. But the denim overalls and flannel shirts were child-size. One by one, Clara lifted them out and held them up. Nothing here would fit her. Maybe all the larger garments had been worn to rags by the time they were outgrown.
She had nearly reached the bottom of the chest when her fingers discovered a book-size object. Its solid shape yielded to her touch with a light crackle of paper. Curious, she reached in with both hands and lifted it to the light of the small window.
It was a packet of some sort, wrapped in brown paper and bound with knotted string. An address was written on it in faded ink. In the faint light, Clara could just make it out.
Miss Hannah Gustavson
General Delivery, Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado
The return address was easier to read. The packet bore the official stamp of the U.S. Post Office in Skagway, Alaska Territory.
Wet clothes forgotten for the moment, Clara stared at the packet. It was addressed to her mother. But Hannahhad been Mrs. Judd Seavers for twenty years. This piece of mail must have been sent to her a very long time ago.
Sitting on her heels, she examined the wrapping. One end appeared to have been opened, then tucked closed again. A probing finger revealed the contents. Inside the paper wrapping, Clara could detect a tightly compressed stack of letters.
Hastily now, she replaced the clothes in the trunk and closed the lid. The voice of discretion whispered that she should replace the packet as well. But curiosity was eating her alive. She had to know what was inside.
Rain drummed against the shingled roof overhead, cascading in torrents off the eaves. She couldn’t stay here. The room was too chilly and too dim, and she needed to check on Tanner.
Holding the packet away from her wet shirt, she padded down the stairs and left it on the kitchen table. Tanner had flung off one of the quilts and was stirring feverishly, muttering as if in the grip of a bad dream. Clara straightened the covers and sponged his face with a damp sleeve. “Rest,” she whispered.
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