Read Online The Scoundrel's Bride by Geralyn Dawson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Geralyn Dawson
Ads: Link
sunshine.
“Well, you were right, Mama,” Zach observed, his tone soft like the morning glory’s blossom. “They’re still here, long after you and I have headed elsewhere.”
Hardiness in the face of neglect—those were the words she’d used. One corner of Zach’s mouth lifted in a rueful smile. He’d never forget the humiliation he’d suffered the day she’d called him her morning glory in front of one of his schoolmates.
He stood and brushed the damp red dirt from his knee. “But I’m back now. Just like I always said I’d be.”
So where was that rush of satisfaction he’d expected to feel?
Backing away from the vines that hugged the cabin wall, Zach braced his hands on his hips and stared at the house. He’d dreamed of returning here for more than twenty years. It never mattered that he owned a place four times its size in New Orleans and another just as big in San Francisco. This was the place he’d ached to return to. This little cabin was his home.
And yet it wasn’t. Sarah Burkett wasn’t here; the color was missing. The reds and oranges and yellows—the greens and purples and pinks—all had vanished from this land. The vibrant palette of life had faded to a bleak, monotonous landscape.
Except for the heavenly blues.
He muttered a curse and said, “I’m sure as hell no morning glory, but since I’m here, I might as well stay.” At least until he’d finished his business with Marston and the godly folk of Cottonwood Creek.
The first order of business was to make the place livable again. To that end, Zach unloaded from the bed of his brand-new buckboard the supplies he’d rounded up earlier that morning and toted them inside the house. Scowling, he grumbled, “Haven’t seen such a mess since the Baptists and the Methodists got to arguing at a San Jacinto Day pie supper.”
Shucking off his coat, he started with the rafters and worked his way down, ruthlessly destroying every web and nest in his way. He swept out the sleeping loft and cleared out the chimney, chasing away one black crow, a pair of squirrels, and enough spiders to keep a family of lizards fed until spring.
Climbing and cleaning warmed him despite the chill, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his body. Muscles stretched and strained, working away the tension that had tugged at his gut all morning. Coming home had proved more difficult than he’d ever imagined.
With the critters and dust chased from within the cabin’s confines, Zach paused and extended his arms above his head. Stretching long and hard, he twisted his torso and flexed his muscles while gazing around the room. Mentally, he added a rocking chair, a wardrobe, cast-iron skillets hung from pegs on the fireplace, and lace. Sarah Burkett had loved lace doilies. He imagined he’d find a stack of them in the trunk out in the wagon.
The trunk. Zach moved toward the window where a fitful breeze rapped the wooden shutters against the cabin’s log walls. Gazing outside, he stared at the buckboard and the wooden chest with weather-rusted hardware and worn leather straps sitting on its bed. The trunk and the items it contained were all he had left of that early portion of his life.
He’d carted it with him all around the country. He’d left it stored in different towns for years on end. To Zach, the trunk had been both symbol and promise. A childhood locked away the day his mama died, both inside that trunk and within himself.
Now that the time had arrived to face the memories, to open the trunk and return the items inside to their rightful place, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to act.
“Well, hell,” he cursed, disgusted with himself. With a scowl set firmly on his face, he marched out to the wagon and heaved the trunk into his arms. Carrying it back inside, he set it in its old spot against the wall near the fireplace and took a couple of steps away. “Well, hell,” he repeated.
Maybe he should take a break and eat some lunch before
“Well, you were right, Mama,” Zach observed, his tone soft like the morning glory’s blossom. “They’re still here, long after you and I have headed elsewhere.”
Hardiness in the face of neglect—those were the words she’d used. One corner of Zach’s mouth lifted in a rueful smile. He’d never forget the humiliation he’d suffered the day she’d called him her morning glory in front of one of his schoolmates.
He stood and brushed the damp red dirt from his knee. “But I’m back now. Just like I always said I’d be.”
So where was that rush of satisfaction he’d expected to feel?
Backing away from the vines that hugged the cabin wall, Zach braced his hands on his hips and stared at the house. He’d dreamed of returning here for more than twenty years. It never mattered that he owned a place four times its size in New Orleans and another just as big in San Francisco. This was the place he’d ached to return to. This little cabin was his home.
And yet it wasn’t. Sarah Burkett wasn’t here; the color was missing. The reds and oranges and yellows—the greens and purples and pinks—all had vanished from this land. The vibrant palette of life had faded to a bleak, monotonous landscape.
Except for the heavenly blues.
He muttered a curse and said, “I’m sure as hell no morning glory, but since I’m here, I might as well stay.” At least until he’d finished his business with Marston and the godly folk of Cottonwood Creek.
The first order of business was to make the place livable again. To that end, Zach unloaded from the bed of his brand-new buckboard the supplies he’d rounded up earlier that morning and toted them inside the house. Scowling, he grumbled, “Haven’t seen such a mess since the Baptists and the Methodists got to arguing at a San Jacinto Day pie supper.”
Shucking off his coat, he started with the rafters and worked his way down, ruthlessly destroying every web and nest in his way. He swept out the sleeping loft and cleared out the chimney, chasing away one black crow, a pair of squirrels, and enough spiders to keep a family of lizards fed until spring.
Climbing and cleaning warmed him despite the chill, and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his body. Muscles stretched and strained, working away the tension that had tugged at his gut all morning. Coming home had proved more difficult than he’d ever imagined.
With the critters and dust chased from within the cabin’s confines, Zach paused and extended his arms above his head. Stretching long and hard, he twisted his torso and flexed his muscles while gazing around the room. Mentally, he added a rocking chair, a wardrobe, cast-iron skillets hung from pegs on the fireplace, and lace. Sarah Burkett had loved lace doilies. He imagined he’d find a stack of them in the trunk out in the wagon.
The trunk. Zach moved toward the window where a fitful breeze rapped the wooden shutters against the cabin’s log walls. Gazing outside, he stared at the buckboard and the wooden chest with weather-rusted hardware and worn leather straps sitting on its bed. The trunk and the items it contained were all he had left of that early portion of his life.
He’d carted it with him all around the country. He’d left it stored in different towns for years on end. To Zach, the trunk had been both symbol and promise. A childhood locked away the day his mama died, both inside that trunk and within himself.
Now that the time had arrived to face the memories, to open the trunk and return the items inside to their rightful place, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to act.
“Well, hell,” he cursed, disgusted with himself. With a scowl set firmly on his face, he marched out to the wagon and heaved the trunk into his arms. Carrying it back inside, he set it in its old spot against the wall near the fireplace and took a couple of steps away. “Well, hell,” he repeated.
Maybe he should take a break and eat some lunch before
Similar Books
