Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings. Jillian HartЧитать онлайн книгу.
if he did not approve of the switch of drivers.
“Don’t worry about Don Quixote. He’s a gentleman, too. You want to tell me what happened?”
“No, but I have a feeling you will pester me until you have the truth.” Dimples framed her mouth, a hint of the smile she held back. She nodded toward the horse. “I can feel him through the lines.”
“Yep. See how I keep the reins light, but not too light? That’s the tension you want. Each horse is different, but my boy likes a gentle hand.” He did not want to talk about his horse. She captured his interest. He had to know why she held herself back, as if reserved, as if she were even more wary than before. Her heart was a puzzle he intended to solve. He gave the reins a quick snap and the horse and sleigh shot forward. “Feel how I did that?”
“Yes.” She nodded, her wool cap brushing against the side of his jaw. “This is like flying!”
“I take it you haven’t been in many sleighs?”
“Not once.” Wispy tendrils escaped from her knit hat and framed her face perfectly. If sweetness could be caught in an image, hers would be it. Bright blue eyes sizzling with excitement, her petal-pink mouth stretched into a tantalizing smile, her cheeks rosy. But there was more. A beautiful joy radiated outward from her heart. She could have been a winter sprite soaring with the snowflakes.
“You surely are a city girl. Hold on.” He snapped the reins lightly, clicking to Don Quixote. The stallion swiveled his ears, nodded his head and stretched out into a fast trot. The sleigh felt airborne, hardly deigning to touch the top layer of snow. “What do you think now?”
“We should slow your horse down. We could crash.”
“Hardly.” He kept hold of the reins long enough to direct Don Quixote toward the next hillside, nestled with snowmantled trees. “See how I tugged on the right rein?”
“Yes, I see. You would do the same to turn left.” A crinkle of worry cut into her porcelain forehead. “How do you slow down?”
“No more worrying.” He released his grip, leaving her in charge of the horse, and settled back, relaxing against the seat. “You’re driving, Clara. It’s that easy.”
“Sure, you can say that because you know how to stop.” But she was laughing, beginning to see that they were as safe as could be. Don Quixote, well aware of where they were headed, obliged by cantering along the cut trail. The fence line rolled by, a foraging moose looked up in disgust as they blew by and her musical laugh rang as clear as the truest bell. “I think I’ve stepped off the train into a wonderland. Storybooks are this magical—not real life.”
“Glad to hear you like this corner of Montana.”
“Oh, I do. It’s like a slice of heaven dropped to earth. I’ve never heard such peaceful quiet or breathed in cleaner air.”
“There’s no one back in Chicago who would miss you? A few old beaus, perhaps?”
“I thought we had already been plain about that. There were no beaus. Just one. Once.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes.” He didn’t need to read the sadness that slipped across her face, for he could feel it square in his heart. That man, whoever he was, had hurt her. “What was his name?”
“Lars. He worked at the livery stable close to where I worked.” She set her delicate chin, a show of strength and not defeat. “And because you seem to think it’s your business, no, I don’t miss him, and I doubt he even remembers me.”
“How can that be?” He couldn’t imagine it, for he would never forget her. This moment, with the warm softness of her arm against his, was emblazoned on his soul forever. He would always recall the faint scent of roses, the silk of her hair against his jaw and the beat of desire rising in his blood. The desire for something he knew not—he might not know much about love and all the intimacy that went with it, but he knew one thing. He wanted more than what could be found at night with her. He wanted to wake each morning with her in his arms and her cheek resting on his chest. He wanted to go about his day’s work with thoughts of their closeness keeping him warm. Coming home to her in the evenings, to her smile, her embrace, her kiss. “You are too beautiful to forget.”
“There you are, trying to charm me again.” She shook her head as if to scold him, but her words were falsely light. Perhaps she was trying too hard to hide her sadness. “Joseph, you should try telling the truth for once.”
“But I am.”
“You think you mean that.” Snow clung to her face like tears. “You shouldn’t call me beautiful. It’s not true.”
“Is that what this Lars fellow told you?” Now things were making sense. “If he did, then there was something wrong with that man.”
“He met another woman, who was actually very beautiful, and he proposed to her instead.” She blinked hard, as if troubled by the snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.
He wasn’t fooled. “You fell in love with this man?”
“I cared for him very much. A huge mistake, as it turned out.” She nodded up ahead, where the trees lining one side of the slope gave way to snowy meadow and fence line. “Are we here? You never told me how to stop your horse.”
“That’s easy.” He covered her hands with his, not because it was necessary but because he wanted to. She was much smaller, her bones and muscles fragile when compared with his own. Stinging tenderness bruised him from the inside out, both a painful and a healing emotion at once as he gently tugged at the reins.
“Whoa, boy,” he crooned, and the sleigh slid to a halt. His heart went right on soaring. Clara turned to him, glowing with accomplishment.
“Thank you, Joseph. Driving was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Don Quixote was a true gentleman.”
The stallion nickered, as if pleased with the compliment. All Joseph could hear was what Clara hadn’t told him about the man who had left her for another. He knew what that felt like. What it was to be found wanting, and how it could knock the starch out of you.
“Grub’s here!” Pa’s right-hand man, Grobe Sutter, called out over the sounds of hammering and sawing. The half-dozen ranch hands put down their tools, left their fence mending and started to amble over.
He had no more hopped out of the sleigh and offered Clara his hand to help her, than he caught sight of the men nearly running. They were mighty quick for fellows who had been at work before sunrise. Aiken Dermot shook the snow from his hat brim, ran his fingers through his hair and drew himself up full-height. His old school buddy had eyes only for the willowy woman in the worn gray coat. Jealousy nearly blinded him.
“Let me get the baskets,” Joseph told her. Not his job, but he didn’t like the way Aiken was sizing up the woman and nodding slowly, as if he thought he might try to nose his way in. “They’re mighty heavy. You wait for me in the sleigh.”
“I should be doing this, Joseph.” She paid him no heed, unaware of the way another hand, Lew Burton, tossed her an interested wink. With a smile and interest glinting in his eyes, he beat Aiken to the back of the sleigh.
“‘Afternoon, miss.” Lew tipped his hat as if he were the finest of dandies. “You must be new around here. I heard word that Mrs. Brooks had brought a new gal from back East. What I didn’t hear was that you were so darned pretty.”
Clara appeared shocked, as if she didn’t know what to say. Well, Joseph surely did.
“Enough of this.” He hadn’t anticipated every ranch hand they had making moon eyes at Clara. He stepped in between them. Red, racing jealousy flared through him like cannon fire. He jammed a basket in Lew’s direction. “You take this and get away from her.”
“Guess that answers my question. She’s his fiancée, boys,” Lew called out, looking danged disappointed. “Knew the rumors I