Read Online Without Words by Ellen O'Connell - Free Book Online Page A

realized she was headed for a pen where the toast-colored nag she’d ridden to town stood by itself. She slid through the rails and hugged the miserable thing around the neck.
    The dog followed, making a perfect reunion of underfed canine, equine, and human flotsam. He rubbed a hand over his face, refusing to watch, and went looking for the livery stable owner.
    “We made a mistake yesterday,” Bret said when he found the man. “Mrs. Petty needs her horse back.”
    “Can’t do that. I got a man coming for her. Should be here any time.”
    Bret’s hands went to his hips. “You can’t tell me you found someone who wants that nag already.”
    The livery owner shrugged. “He keeps hounds. You know.”
    “I know Mrs. Petty is fond of that damned horse, and I want it back. There isn’t enough meat on it to feed a dog for a week anyway. The hound man can take his hounds and go hunting.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “Did you get those four gallons of whiskey?”
    The man licked his lips, his eyes looking everywhere except at Bret. “I sent my boy for it. He found it.”
    “Good stuff?”
    “Yeah, it is. Old Cyrus always brewed the best.”
    “Would you rather let Mrs. Petty have her horse back or pay her for the whiskey?”
    “Now look, mister, you said I could have those jugs. I wouldn’t have taken that nag unless....” The man’s voice tapered off. “All right, doggone it, you can have her back.”
    “Good. You can make your money selling me a decent saddle and bridle for her.”
    The blacksmith had finished with Jasper and was working on Packie when Bret and Hassie arrived. The man took one look at what they were leading and all but leapt out from under Packie’s hind leg.
    “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t care how much you pay. I’m not shoeing that, not today and not tomorrow either.”
    “Of course not,” Bret said, “I wouldn’t ask it of you.”
    The man relaxed visibly, picked up Packie’s leg again and finished nailing and clinching the last shoe.
    When he was done, Bret said, “Just trim the mare up a little. We’re headed for Fort Leavenworth, and I’ll get her shod there, but I don’t want those flares breaking off before then.”
    The smith picked up his tools. “I heard there was shooting in town.”
    “There was. Nothing serious. Nobody hurt.”
    “I heard it was you.”
    “It was.”
    “Are you going to shoot me if I don’t trim that horse?”
    “Don’t make me decide.”
    The smith walked over to the mare and threw his tools down by her front feet. “All right, but you have to promise me one thing. There’s another smith on the east side of town. If you ever get back this way, take your business there.”
    “It’s a deal.”

Chapter 7
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    B RET MUST HAVE spent her forty dollars at least twice over. On top of everything else, the smithy had transformed Brownie’s big platter feet into mere dinner plates.
    They rode back to the mercantile, Bret ahead, leading both the packhorse and the cavalry horse. Hassie trailed behind, trying to make Brownie move faster and keep up, scanning each side of the street for signs of the marshal or his deputy. If the marshal shot Bret, it would be her fault. Everything that had happened today was her fault.
    The pile of clothing and equipment waiting on the counter at the store looked bigger than ever. Bret packed most of it in the panniers on the packhorse. Some, including the slate, went into her new saddlebags, and he tied her carpetbag behind her saddle too.
    Hassie mouthed a thank you at Mrs. Tate as they left, remembering what the woman had said about pity and envy. Envy? Never. Pity? Hassie fervently hoped not, yet she had feared what Rufus would demand in return for leaving her a mere ten dollars. If Bret wanted a husband’s rights in return for all he had bought, what would she do?
    Fighting him might make him smile at last—or laugh. His strength dwarfed hers. But could she force herself to simply