she pushed herself upright to look more keenly at her surroundings. She closed her eyes until the spinning stopped, then opened them again.
She was lying in a bed large enough for two, with a roughly carved footboard. She turned and saw the headboard was also carved with a rugged leaf design. A plain wooden clothes chest stood beside the door with a small oval mirror above it. There was nothing soft about the room, nothing to temper the rough edges. Nothing feminine.
I’ve been rescued. I’m safe .
Hannah realized the second half of that sentence might not be true. At least she hadn’t found herself in a brothel somewhere, in bed with some man. Or lying exposed out on the prairie dying of thirst, her tongue thick and her throat raw. But there was nothing in this room that suggested a woman lived here. Which meant she might yet find herself at the mercy of some coarse stranger.
She caught a glimpse of her badly sunburned arm and realized she was no longer dressed in her sunshine yellow dress with the square neck and short, puffy sleeves. She shoved the rough wool blanket back and discovered her feet were warm because she had on a pair of too-large gray wool socks. She was also wearing a man’s red-and-black plaid flannel shirt that covered her all the way to her knees. But nothing else.
What had happened to her dress and underclothes? More importantly, who had undressed her? Hannah’s thoughts skittered away, unwilling to consider the probable answer to that question.
Mr. McMurtry had bought the frilly party dress for her before they’d left Chicago as a wedding gift. It was the nicest thing she owned. She’d put it on because … She couldn’t imagine why she’d put it on. What kind of party had she planned to attend? And since Mr. McMurtry was dead, with whom? She’d left their wagon … Why had she left it?
She remembered donning a light shawl to protect her from the brutal effects of the scorching sun on her fair skin and walking away from the wagon. She searched her mind to discover what else she knew about why she might have left the wagon, but it was surprisingly blank.
That was frightening.
Hannah didn’t know when she’d lost the shawl, either. All she knew was that she’d had nothing to wrap around herself when the wind began to wail and blow icy cold. She’d stopped and curled up in a ball and pulled her skirt up over her arms and prayed for death to take her quickly so she would no longer suffer.
Something was niggling at the edge of Hannah’s memory, something awful, but she didn’t want to remember it. She focused on the present. On the here and now. Whatever that awful thing was, she could worry about it later.
The door suddenly swung open. Hannah gasped and grabbed for the blanket to cover herself.
A tall, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway. His eyes reminded Hannah of a wolf, silvery gray and piercing and dangerous. He had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a straight nose, and a shadow of beard that was as dark as the black hair that hung over the collar of a plaid wool shirt similar to the one she was wearing.
He didn’t move an inch, and Hannah wondered whether he was stalling until someone else—perhaps his wife, or whatever female had undressed her—arrived. She waited for him to speak, to explain how she’d gotten there, to tell her where she was.
He said nothing, simply stared with eyes that probed deep inside her, searching out the shadows.
Hannah lowered her gaze to shield her thoughts, then shied away from the darkness that loomed. She looked up and met his gaze again seeking solace.
He remained aloof, his jaw and shoulders square, his stance wide, waiting patiently, relentlessly, like a wild animal stalking its prey, for her to make the first move.
Hannah resisted the urge to run. There was no escape with him blocking the door. She could see nothing outside the window except cloudless blue sky, which suggested she was in an upstairs
She was lying in a bed large enough for two, with a roughly carved footboard. She turned and saw the headboard was also carved with a rugged leaf design. A plain wooden clothes chest stood beside the door with a small oval mirror above it. There was nothing soft about the room, nothing to temper the rough edges. Nothing feminine.
I’ve been rescued. I’m safe .
Hannah realized the second half of that sentence might not be true. At least she hadn’t found herself in a brothel somewhere, in bed with some man. Or lying exposed out on the prairie dying of thirst, her tongue thick and her throat raw. But there was nothing in this room that suggested a woman lived here. Which meant she might yet find herself at the mercy of some coarse stranger.
She caught a glimpse of her badly sunburned arm and realized she was no longer dressed in her sunshine yellow dress with the square neck and short, puffy sleeves. She shoved the rough wool blanket back and discovered her feet were warm because she had on a pair of too-large gray wool socks. She was also wearing a man’s red-and-black plaid flannel shirt that covered her all the way to her knees. But nothing else.
What had happened to her dress and underclothes? More importantly, who had undressed her? Hannah’s thoughts skittered away, unwilling to consider the probable answer to that question.
Mr. McMurtry had bought the frilly party dress for her before they’d left Chicago as a wedding gift. It was the nicest thing she owned. She’d put it on because … She couldn’t imagine why she’d put it on. What kind of party had she planned to attend? And since Mr. McMurtry was dead, with whom? She’d left their wagon … Why had she left it?
She remembered donning a light shawl to protect her from the brutal effects of the scorching sun on her fair skin and walking away from the wagon. She searched her mind to discover what else she knew about why she might have left the wagon, but it was surprisingly blank.
That was frightening.
Hannah didn’t know when she’d lost the shawl, either. All she knew was that she’d had nothing to wrap around herself when the wind began to wail and blow icy cold. She’d stopped and curled up in a ball and pulled her skirt up over her arms and prayed for death to take her quickly so she would no longer suffer.
Something was niggling at the edge of Hannah’s memory, something awful, but she didn’t want to remember it. She focused on the present. On the here and now. Whatever that awful thing was, she could worry about it later.
The door suddenly swung open. Hannah gasped and grabbed for the blanket to cover herself.
A tall, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway. His eyes reminded Hannah of a wolf, silvery gray and piercing and dangerous. He had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a straight nose, and a shadow of beard that was as dark as the black hair that hung over the collar of a plaid wool shirt similar to the one she was wearing.
He didn’t move an inch, and Hannah wondered whether he was stalling until someone else—perhaps his wife, or whatever female had undressed her—arrived. She waited for him to speak, to explain how she’d gotten there, to tell her where she was.
He said nothing, simply stared with eyes that probed deep inside her, searching out the shadows.
Hannah lowered her gaze to shield her thoughts, then shied away from the darkness that loomed. She looked up and met his gaze again seeking solace.
He remained aloof, his jaw and shoulders square, his stance wide, waiting patiently, relentlessly, like a wild animal stalking its prey, for her to make the first move.
Hannah resisted the urge to run. There was no escape with him blocking the door. She could see nothing outside the window except cloudless blue sky, which suggested she was in an upstairs
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