Read Online Without Words by Ellen O'Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen O'Connell
Tags: Romance
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yield? She could run, and with the help of darkness even get away. After that there were only three possibilities.
She could walk back to Werver and hope she could avoid the Restons, the marshal, Sally Nichols, and Zachary and get help from Reverend Lyons or perhaps the Tates. She could walk home and hope to find a way to avoid starvation. She could walk to the next town and hope the people there were more charitably inclined than those in Werver, for she no longer had a penny to her name and would need charity.
Hope, hope, hope. Her empty stomach churned.
Up ahead, Bret stopped again. Hassie studied his back and the half-profile she could see when he turned his head slightly, waiting for her to catch up. What he would do to a woman would be different than what a sickly, elderly husband had done—the few times Cyrus had abandoned his whiskey long enough to do anything. What had been uncomfortable, unpleasant, and humiliating with Cyrus would be painful, frightening, and humiliating with a man as coldly indifferent and strong as Bret Sterling.
The sun hung low in the western sky by the time they left Werver; the air cooled. Hassie buttoned her new dark gray wool coat all the way up and settled deep in the saddle.
She found a rhythm. Her left leg bumped the horse as one foreleg stepped and her right leg bumped as the other foreleg stepped. Brownie did quicken a little, but not enough. They fell farther and farther behind—even though Hassie was sure Bret was holding the other horses back.
He reined up, waited until she was close, and let his horses start again. If he lost patience and turned that temper on her.... She redoubled her efforts to hurry Brownie.
Gentle hills rolled into the distance as far as the eye could see. This early in the year the groves of oak, hickory, and maple were still bare-branched skeletons, but under the brittle brown and yellow stalks of last year’s grass, new growth sprouted green. To the west a soft pink slowly stained puffy white clouds.
Hassie stopped fretting. Her unhappy stomach settled enough to growl a little, but very little compared to what had become familiar in the last year. The fresh, cold air on her face contrasted pleasantly with the snug warmth of the rest of her inside layers of cotton, flannel, and wool.
The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves soothed away the day’s troubles, and her spirits rose. So far, Bret Sterling had only made her life better. She didn’t want to contemplate where she’d be right now if he hadn’t decided to come back to Werver to have his horses shod.
After years confined first by Mama’s marriage to Ned Grimes and then by her own to Cyrus, she was following a man unlike any she had known or imagined to places she had never been. And after all, he hadn’t shot anything today except lamps.
Bret stopped his horses for what must be the twentieth time. Before Brownie plodded alongside, he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Accustomed to gunfire, his horses barely twitched when he fired. Brownie threw her head, snorted, and danced sideways but had no energy for more.
“If your dog was worth his salt, he’d fetch that rabbit, and I wouldn’t have to,” Bret said.
Hassie looked around anxiously. Yellow Dog had disappeared again, which was a good thing. If he got hold of that rabbit, he’d run off with it, not fetch it.
Half a mile on, Bret turned off the road, wove through trees until they came to a small clearing, and stopped there. After tying Brownie beside Bret’s horses, Hassie reached for the cinch.
“Loosen it a little, but leave it on,” he said.
She loosened the cinch, fighting dismay. The horses had all drunk from the smithy’s trough, but even Bret’s well fed horses needed to eat. The saddles and packs needed to come off. The horses needed to graze.
Bret didn’t seem to think so. He gathered dead branches and arranged them ready for a fire. She hurried to help.
“That’s enough,” he said when she
She could walk back to Werver and hope she could avoid the Restons, the marshal, Sally Nichols, and Zachary and get help from Reverend Lyons or perhaps the Tates. She could walk home and hope to find a way to avoid starvation. She could walk to the next town and hope the people there were more charitably inclined than those in Werver, for she no longer had a penny to her name and would need charity.
Hope, hope, hope. Her empty stomach churned.
Up ahead, Bret stopped again. Hassie studied his back and the half-profile she could see when he turned his head slightly, waiting for her to catch up. What he would do to a woman would be different than what a sickly, elderly husband had done—the few times Cyrus had abandoned his whiskey long enough to do anything. What had been uncomfortable, unpleasant, and humiliating with Cyrus would be painful, frightening, and humiliating with a man as coldly indifferent and strong as Bret Sterling.
The sun hung low in the western sky by the time they left Werver; the air cooled. Hassie buttoned her new dark gray wool coat all the way up and settled deep in the saddle.
She found a rhythm. Her left leg bumped the horse as one foreleg stepped and her right leg bumped as the other foreleg stepped. Brownie did quicken a little, but not enough. They fell farther and farther behind—even though Hassie was sure Bret was holding the other horses back.
He reined up, waited until she was close, and let his horses start again. If he lost patience and turned that temper on her.... She redoubled her efforts to hurry Brownie.
Gentle hills rolled into the distance as far as the eye could see. This early in the year the groves of oak, hickory, and maple were still bare-branched skeletons, but under the brittle brown and yellow stalks of last year’s grass, new growth sprouted green. To the west a soft pink slowly stained puffy white clouds.
Hassie stopped fretting. Her unhappy stomach settled enough to growl a little, but very little compared to what had become familiar in the last year. The fresh, cold air on her face contrasted pleasantly with the snug warmth of the rest of her inside layers of cotton, flannel, and wool.
The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves soothed away the day’s troubles, and her spirits rose. So far, Bret Sterling had only made her life better. She didn’t want to contemplate where she’d be right now if he hadn’t decided to come back to Werver to have his horses shod.
After years confined first by Mama’s marriage to Ned Grimes and then by her own to Cyrus, she was following a man unlike any she had known or imagined to places she had never been. And after all, he hadn’t shot anything today except lamps.
Bret stopped his horses for what must be the twentieth time. Before Brownie plodded alongside, he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Accustomed to gunfire, his horses barely twitched when he fired. Brownie threw her head, snorted, and danced sideways but had no energy for more.
“If your dog was worth his salt, he’d fetch that rabbit, and I wouldn’t have to,” Bret said.
Hassie looked around anxiously. Yellow Dog had disappeared again, which was a good thing. If he got hold of that rabbit, he’d run off with it, not fetch it.
Half a mile on, Bret turned off the road, wove through trees until they came to a small clearing, and stopped there. After tying Brownie beside Bret’s horses, Hassie reached for the cinch.
“Loosen it a little, but leave it on,” he said.
She loosened the cinch, fighting dismay. The horses had all drunk from the smithy’s trough, but even Bret’s well fed horses needed to eat. The saddles and packs needed to come off. The horses needed to graze.
Bret didn’t seem to think so. He gathered dead branches and arranged them ready for a fire. She hurried to help.
“That’s enough,” he said when she
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