Read Online The Ruby Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy) by Katherine Logan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine Logan
Tags: Fiction
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smoothed down his unrepentant cowlick and then grabbed her carpetbag’s handle. “I’ll carry this for you. If I hadn’t been late, we wouldn’t have to rush. But once I start reading Mr. Montgomery’s books time goes by faster than potatoes at suppertime.”
Her eyes gazed up and down the street, taking in the stevedores and soldiers from Fort Leavenworth and whooping riders galloping their ponies through the mud. “What were you reading?”
“The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.”
A dress shop window at the end of the sidewalk drew Kit’s attention, and she only half-heartedly listened to Adam’s response. The similarities between the shop and her father’s drawing were unmistakable. How could she have missed the building the night before? She dropped Adam’s arm and made her way through a group of cigar-smoking men arguing over the fastest, safest trail to Oregon. She felt tempted to tell them what they wanted to know, but kept walking. Life had to happen without her interference.
She reached the dress shop, placed her palms on the cool glass, and peered inside. Had her mother worked in this store? How far away would her father have been to see her inside the shop? She turned, searching for his vantage point. Independence Square was diagonally across the street with benches nestled among the trees. He could have watched from there. Her father wasn’t sitting there now, but Cullen was. Hat tipped back, one leg crossed over the other, and a newspaper spread open in his lap. His eyes weren’t on the paper. They were on her, gazing this way and that as if she were a painting on display.
Adam tugged on her arm. “Ma’am, we need to hurry.”
“What? I’m sorry. What’d you say?”
“We need to hurry. Pa’s waitin’ on us.” He hooked her elbow, and they headed toward the Barretts’ camp, but her gaze remained fixed on Cullen. He was visible now only in profile as he talked with a man who had approached him. Does he ever have a moment’s peace?
With her eyes still on Cullen, she said, “Tell me again what you were reading.”
“ The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.” Adam must have sensed a receptive audience of one. He proceeded to recite the part of Bassanio extolling Portia’s virtues to Antonio. Kit pushed thoughts of Cullen and her parents to the back of her mind and gave the young thespian her attention, enjoying his enthusiasm.
By the time they reached camp, her stomach had settled, and her headache had subsided to only a mild throb. Then she saw John glaring at his pocket watch. She apologized for being late, told him it wouldn’t happen again. Then she followed Adam’s lead and ducked out of the way.
Frances found Kit while she was grooming Stormy. The child stepped under the horse’s nose. “Be careful, Frances.”
“I’m always careful. He’s a big horse, isn’t he? Can you ride him? Do you fall off? Are you ‘fraid you’ll get hurt? Do you—”
“Whoa, young lady. Give me a shot at the first question before moving on to the rest.”
Frances crossed her arms and remained planted as if Stormy were only a statue. “Ma said your horse is dangerous. I’m supposed to stay away from him. You’re not scared, and you’re not much bigger than me.”
Kit gave the child’s bonnet strings a little tug. “But I’m a lot older.”
“I’m eight. How old are you?”
No one needed to know Kit’s age. By their standard she qualified as an old maid. What would Cullen think if he knew she was twenty-five? And why did his opinion matter? “Stormy is five. He’d just been born when I saw him the first time. Not much taller than you are now.”
“Did he walk?”
“On shaky legs.” Stormy’s birth was a slippery issue, and she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll ask your mom and dad if you can ride with me sometime.”
With the innocent face of an acolyte, Frances asked. “Do you mean my ma and pa?”
Kit snapped her fingers like a
Her eyes gazed up and down the street, taking in the stevedores and soldiers from Fort Leavenworth and whooping riders galloping their ponies through the mud. “What were you reading?”
“The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.”
A dress shop window at the end of the sidewalk drew Kit’s attention, and she only half-heartedly listened to Adam’s response. The similarities between the shop and her father’s drawing were unmistakable. How could she have missed the building the night before? She dropped Adam’s arm and made her way through a group of cigar-smoking men arguing over the fastest, safest trail to Oregon. She felt tempted to tell them what they wanted to know, but kept walking. Life had to happen without her interference.
She reached the dress shop, placed her palms on the cool glass, and peered inside. Had her mother worked in this store? How far away would her father have been to see her inside the shop? She turned, searching for his vantage point. Independence Square was diagonally across the street with benches nestled among the trees. He could have watched from there. Her father wasn’t sitting there now, but Cullen was. Hat tipped back, one leg crossed over the other, and a newspaper spread open in his lap. His eyes weren’t on the paper. They were on her, gazing this way and that as if she were a painting on display.
Adam tugged on her arm. “Ma’am, we need to hurry.”
“What? I’m sorry. What’d you say?”
“We need to hurry. Pa’s waitin’ on us.” He hooked her elbow, and they headed toward the Barretts’ camp, but her gaze remained fixed on Cullen. He was visible now only in profile as he talked with a man who had approached him. Does he ever have a moment’s peace?
With her eyes still on Cullen, she said, “Tell me again what you were reading.”
“ The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare.” Adam must have sensed a receptive audience of one. He proceeded to recite the part of Bassanio extolling Portia’s virtues to Antonio. Kit pushed thoughts of Cullen and her parents to the back of her mind and gave the young thespian her attention, enjoying his enthusiasm.
By the time they reached camp, her stomach had settled, and her headache had subsided to only a mild throb. Then she saw John glaring at his pocket watch. She apologized for being late, told him it wouldn’t happen again. Then she followed Adam’s lead and ducked out of the way.
Frances found Kit while she was grooming Stormy. The child stepped under the horse’s nose. “Be careful, Frances.”
“I’m always careful. He’s a big horse, isn’t he? Can you ride him? Do you fall off? Are you ‘fraid you’ll get hurt? Do you—”
“Whoa, young lady. Give me a shot at the first question before moving on to the rest.”
Frances crossed her arms and remained planted as if Stormy were only a statue. “Ma said your horse is dangerous. I’m supposed to stay away from him. You’re not scared, and you’re not much bigger than me.”
Kit gave the child’s bonnet strings a little tug. “But I’m a lot older.”
“I’m eight. How old are you?”
No one needed to know Kit’s age. By their standard she qualified as an old maid. What would Cullen think if he knew she was twenty-five? And why did his opinion matter? “Stormy is five. He’d just been born when I saw him the first time. Not much taller than you are now.”
“Did he walk?”
“On shaky legs.” Stormy’s birth was a slippery issue, and she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll ask your mom and dad if you can ride with me sometime.”
With the innocent face of an acolyte, Frances asked. “Do you mean my ma and pa?”
Kit snapped her fingers like a
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