Homespun Bride. Jillian HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
true measure beneath the handsome charm and solid-appearing values. Thad McKaslin was not a man of his word. He was a coward. A man who ran instead of stayed.
“What about his family? Does he own property?” Henrietta persisted. “That’s a fine young man. And handsome. Don’t you think, Matilda? Noelle, you must tell me what you know about him. Here’s your cloak. We’re still attending to our errands in town. I’ll not be put off my cause, you know.”
Noelle fumbled with the garment Henrietta pressed into her hands. Certainly she knew that; why had she rehung her cloak in the first place? It simply went to show how tangled up her emotions were. A mess of them, threads of old hurt and confusion and the sharp tang of lost love were as hopelessly knotted. “I’m afraid I know very little about Mr. McKaslin. He left town long ago. I never knew what became of him. I never cared to.”
After she’d finally accepted that he’d broken his vow to her. That he’d left her waiting for a promise he’d never meant to keep.
“Perhaps he left to make his fortune.” There was the rustle of wool as Henrietta slipped into her coat. “Perhaps he has very respectable family back East.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.” Noelle lost count of her steps and had to reorient herself. Three more steps and she was at the door. The handle felt warm from the radiant heat of the fireplace, which was blazing on this frigid, late-winter morning—like her emotional tie to Thad. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t depend on Thad McKaslin as a reliable kind of man.”
When she stepped outside, the still morning air seemed to wait expectantly, as if some wonderful thing were about to happen. But what? She lived a quiet life teaching piano and crocheting and sewing for her five cousins’ hope chests. The days, while happy, were predictable and routine. Why did it feel as if something was about to change?
Simply her wishful thinking, no doubt. Before she’d lost her sight, she had a love for romantic novels. Or, she reasoned, maybe spring really was right around the corner. It was, after all, late January. A month and a few weeks more and March would be storming in. It had been her father’s favorite time of the year.
Her father. She missed him so strongly, it was like taking an ax to her midsection. She gripped the rail and froze a moment, drawing in the fresh, icy air. He’d been at her side when she finally accepted that Thad had abandoned her. He’d run away from marrying her. After she confessed, her father had comforted her and reassured her as she cried for the pieces of her shattered heart and broken dreams. Only the death of her parents had hurt with that same keen-edged grief.
I miss you, Papa. She felt the lonesomeness for him as solidly as the boards at her feet. Her knees felt weak as she tripped down the steps. Thad had brought all this up. Simply waltzing into her home, pretending he was such a good dependable man. Why the pretense? She already knew the kind of man he was.
An opportunist, her father had said to her, kindly, while she’d sobbed. She remembered how her mother had come into her room with a steaming pot of tea for all of them. She sure ached for her parents’ comfort, their company, everything. They had held her up after her innocent illusions had been so thoroughly destroyed.
If they were still alive, they would be the first to reassure her and to send Thaddeus McKaslin back on his way to wherever it was he’d run off to. Good riddance.
But as she reached the brick walk, she heard the low, deep-throated nicker of a horse’s greeting and the chink of steeled shoes shifting in the ice-crusted snow. Was it Thad’s horse? Was he still here? And why was she allowing herself to be so upset by him that she hadn’t paid enough attention to remember if she’d distinctly heard him riding away or not?
The horse’s bridle jingled and she could hear him take a step her way. She held out her hand and the steel-shod hooves padded closer. This time the low nicker was accompanied by the radiant warmth of a horse’s big body, and the tickle of whiskers against her fingertips warned her a second before the horse scented her palm and rubbed against her.
Oh, she loved horses. She cherished the warm-silk feel of his muzzle and stroked the animal’s nose.
“You are a handsome one,” she said, running her fingers over the length of his nose to his forelock. He snorted as if in answer and pressed into her touch. Joy, warm and quiet, flowed through her. “I miss riding the most but you’ll just keep that secret, right? My aunt does not approve of women horseback riding, even sidesaddle.”
The horse seemed likewise offended as he snorted and leaned in, lowering his head to give her better access; at least that’s how she chose to think of it. “It’s a pleasure to be with a well-behaved horse. That’s not usual around here now that my uncle has—”
An angry, buglelike whinny shattered the morning’s peace. Noelle spun toward the sound—the stable. That new stallion of Uncle Robert’s was so spirited, he was dangerous. “—has decided he’s a horseman,” she finished.
Please, don’t let my uncle get hurt, Lord. She took a step off the brick walk and stopped, unsure of the uneven drifts of snow that would be no challenge if she could see them. Not that she could help if there was a problem, but she wanted to help. Robert knew next to nothing about horses, although he was certain he knew everything, the poor, dear, misguided man. Perhaps that’s where Thad was, giving her uncle a hand and a word of advice. Robert needed it.
The front door slammed shut and Henrietta barreled down the steps with the speed of a tornado. “Where is my horse? Why hasn’t Robert brought out Miss Bradshaw?”
“I don’t know why your mare is not hitched up yet. It sounds as if he’s having problems with the stallion again.”
“The stallion? What about my mare? He’d best not even contemplate the possibility of my driving to town behind that—that creature! As if that new gelding hadn’t been bad enough of an experience. We shall meet peril for certain. Wait here, dear.” Henrietta tromped by on the walk, her shoes striking against the brick and then muffled by the snow.
Noelle imagined her aunt lifting her skirts and wading through the snowdrifts like a Viking conquering the fjords. Since she had to stand alone in the cold, she may as well get better acquainted with Thad’s horse. As if the horse agreed, his bridle bit jingled—perhaps he was shaking his head—and then he nosed her hand for more affection.
How could she resist? She savored the little joys of it. The alive feeling of the warm, velvet coat. The rhythmic breathing hot against her hand. The ticklish muzzle whiskers. The heart of the horse as he politely lipped at the pocket of her cloak. She liked him; it was hard not to. Once, in simpler times, she had dreams of horses and living all her life with them—and Thad.
Thad. At least she didn’t have to worry about him lingering around, or coming back into her life to stay. His leaving was a certainty. She ran her fingers through the horse’s coarse forelock. What was keeping Henrietta’s sleigh?
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