Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,3
with hope sparkling in her eyes. After all that she had lost, how could he outright disappoint her? Life was complicated and love more so.
Would the girl understand? Was she already packing her hope chest? She swept into sight, farther away, hardly more than a flash of red, a bit of gray and those bouncing black curls. From behind, she made a lovely pose, willowy and petite, with her flare of skirt and elegant outstretched hand, slowly approaching the lone horse. The animal looked lathered, his skin flicking with nervous energy as if ready to bolt again.
“Fool girl,” O’Rourke growled, halting the horse near a paint-peeling, lopsided barn. “She ought to know she’ll never catch the beast that way.”
Her back was still to him, distant enough that she was more impression than substance, more whimsy than real with the falling snow cloaking her. If he had the time, he could capture the emotion in watercolors with muted tones and blurred lines to show her skirt and outstretched hand.
Ian vaguely realized the older man was digging in the back for something, and the rattle of a chain tore him from his thoughts and into the bitter-cold moment. He did not want to know what O’Rourke was up to; he’d seen enough of the man to expect the worst. He hopped into the deep snow, ignoring the hitch of pain in his left leg, and reached for his cane. “I shall take care of it. I have a way with horses.”
“So do I.” O’Rourke shook out a length of something that flickered like a snake’s tongue—aye, a whip. “This won’t take long with the two of us.”
“No need to get yourself cold and tired out.” Under no circumstances was he going to be involved in that brand of horse handling. Best to placate the man, and then figure out what he was going to do. What his grandparents hadn’t told him about their best friend’s son could fill a barrel. The ten-minute drive from town in the man’s company was nine minutes more than he felt fit to handle. He gestured toward the ramshackle shanty up the rise a ways. “You go on up to the house where the fire is warm. Let me manage this for you.”
“Well, young fellow, that sounds mighty good.” O’Rourke seemed pleased and held out the whip. “I suspect you might need this.”
Ian looked with distaste at the sinuous black length. “I see a rope looped over the fencepost. That will be enough.”
“Suit yourself. It will be here if you need it.” O’Rourke sounded amused as he tossed down the whip and sank boot-deep into the snow. He gestured toward the harnessed gelding, standing head down, as if his spirit had been broken long ago. “I’ll leave this one for you to stable.”
It wasn’t a question, and Ian didn’t like the sound of mean beneath the man’s conversational tone. Still, he’d been brought up to respect his elders, so he held his tongue. O’Rourke and how he lived his life were not his concern. Seeing his grandmother through her final days and figuring out a way to make a living for both of them was his purpose.
He ought not to be giving in to his fanciful side, but with every step he took he noted the gray daylight falling at an angle, shadows hugging the lee side of rises and fence posts, but not over the girl. As he loosened the harness and lifted the horse collar from the gelding’s back, he felt a strange longing, for what he did not know. Perhaps it was the haunting beauty of this place of sweeping prairies and loneliness. Maybe it was simply from traveling so long and far from everything he knew. There was another possibility, and one he didn’t much want to think on. He led the horse to the corral gate, unlooped the coiled rope from the post, used the rails to struggle onto the horse’s back and swiped snow from his eyelashes.
Where had she gone? He breathed in the prairie’s stillness, coiling the long driving reins and knotting them. He leaned to open the gate and directed the horse through. No animal stirred, a sign the storm setting in was bound to get worse. Only the wind’s flat-noted wail chased across the rolling and falling white prairie. Different from his Kentucky home, and while he missed the trees and verdant fields, this sparse place held beauty, too.
“C’mon, boy.” He drew the gate closed behind them. The