Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,38
feeling as easily. “I would make a terrible wife. You ought to find someone else. Maybe someone your age? Maybe you could attend church. There are plenty of nice older ladies there.”
“Now I know why your pa is desperate to get rid of you.” A sour expression crossed the man’s ruddy features. “You’ve got a smart mouth. That can be cured.”
“I doubt it.” She closed the lantern’s squeaky door. “Why don’t you go play cards. I’ve got work to do, and I—”
“Did I say you could talk?” His temper flared, as if out of nowhere. “I like what I see, but you have some learnin’ yet to do.”
“Leave me alone, you—” She didn’t see the blow coming, it was so fast. His palm shot out and connected to her cheek. Pain bulleted through her skull, and white stars danced in her head. Her knees no longer held her upright. He’d hit her, she realized, as her head cracked against the wood post, and she hit the ground on her back. She tried to focus on the rafters overhead, but they were blurry. Her ears rang like church bells.
“I don’t like sass and I don’t take orders.” He towered over her, fists clenched, ready to swing again. “Listen here, missy. You will do what I say.”
Fear crackled through her nerve endings as she inched backward. Her father was in the house, and she knew the sheriff was, too; she’d seen him arrive. “I don’t understand why you would want to marry me.”
“Who said anything about marrying you?” He grabbed for her arm and she rolled away. “My last gal run off, and I have need of someone to cook and clean and keep me warm.”
Shock choked her. She gasped for air, but nothing came. Just a garbled sound, a terrified sound. Dimly she wondered what would happen to her. If he intended to take her with him tonight, with her father and the sheriff watching to make sure she obeyed. She would have no chance to say goodbye to her friends. They would go to school tomorrow and know nothing of why she wasn’t there. The future she’d wished and saved for, the one with hopes for a happy life working at some pleasant job in a nice town and her own little house one day—all that would vanish.
“Git up!” The stranger grabbed for her again.
She leaped to her feet, evading him. Flannigan neighed angrily. Riley lunged and reared in his stall. They sensed the danger, too. What else did this man intend to do to her? Her fingers closed around the worn smooth wood of the pitchfork handle. She presented it, tines out.
“Go away.” She might be able to scare him off, or make him angry enough to run and get her da. That would give her the time she needed. Time to run and hide in the falling darkness.
“How dare you give me orders!” His face twisted with rage and he lunged toward the pitchfork as if to rip it from her hand. But he was jerked off his feet from behind.
“Fiona? It’s me.” Ian McPherson emerged from the shadows, as strong as a hero, as shadowed as twilight. “It’s all right now, I promise you that.”
“I’m dreaming you up, aren’t I?” She started quaking so hard the pitchfork shook. It was a cruel trick her mind was playing on her.
“The last thing I am is anyone’s dream, lass.” He looked real enough as he hauled the cursing man to the door by the back of his collar, handily, as if he were carrying a varmint by the scruff of the neck. “Reckon it’s a good thing I’ve come back.”
“I’ll not argue with that.” A good thing? A blessing it was. He had come just when she needed him most. She watched in disbelief as he deposited the man outside in the storm, exchanged heated words with him and strode inside to grab the black horse by the reins. When he slammed the door shut, they were alone.
“It did not take long for you to get into a wee bit of trouble.” He ambled toward her, his limp pronounced, as if he’d strained his injury. “I was right. Your father wasted no time finding a man to take my place.”
“You were the far superior candidate.”
“Your nose is bleeding. Sit down.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and shook out the folds. “Tilt your head back. Pinch the bridge of your nose.”
“I don’t have time.” Her head might be