Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,4
crest where he’d last spotted the girl and horse was empty. He pressed the gelding into a quick walk. Falling flakes tapped with greater force and veiled the sky and the horizon, closing in on him until he could no longer see anything but gray shadows and white snow. He welcomed the beat of the wild wind and needle-sharp flakes. The farmer in him delighted in the expansive fields and the sight of a cow herd foraging in the far distance. Aye, he missed his family’s homestead. He missed the life he had been born to.
When he reached the hill’s crest, hoofprints and shoe prints merged and circled, clearly trailing northward. A blizzard was coming, that was his guess, for the wind became cruel and the snowflakes furious. At least he had tracks to follow. He did not want to think what he would find when he was face-to-face with the woman. He could only pray she did not want this union any more than he did. And why would she? he mused as he tucked his cane in one hand. The girl would likely want nothing to do with him, a washed-up horseman more comfortable chatting with his animals than a woman.
Perhaps it was Providence that brought the snow down like a shield, protecting him from sight as he nosed the horse into the teeth of the storm. Maybe the Almighty knew how hard it was going to be for him to face the girl, and sent the wind to swirl around him like a defense. He could do this; he drew in a long breath of wintry air and steeled his spine. Talking to a woman might not be his strong suit, but he had done more terrifying things. Right now none came to mind, but that was only because his brains muddled whenever a female was nearby. Which meant that somewhere in the thick curtain of white, Miss Fiona O’Rourke, his betrothed, had to be very close.
He heard her before he saw her. At least he thought that was her. The quiet soprano was sheer beauty, muted by the storm and unconsciously true, as if the singer were unaware of her gifted voice. Sure rounded notes seemed to float amid the tumbling snowflakes, the melody hardly more than a faint rise and fall until the horse drew him closer and he recognized the tune.
“O come all ye faithful,” she sang. “Joyful and triumphant.”
He wondered how anything so warm and sweet could be borne on the bitterest winds he’d ever felt. They sliced through his layers of wool and flannel like the sharpest blade, and yet her sweet timbre lulled him warmly, opening his heart when the cruel cold should have closed it up tight.
“O come ye, oh come ye…” The snowfall parted enough to hint at the shadow of a young woman, dark curls flecked with white, holding out her hand toward the darker silhouette of the giant draft horse. “To Bethlehem. Come and behold him…”
The horse he rode plunged toward her as if captivated. Ian understood. He, too, felt drawn to her like the snowflakes to the ground. They were helpless to take another course from sky to earth just as he could not help drawing the horse to a stop to watch. Being near to her should have made his palms sweat and cloying tightness take over his chest, but he hardly noticed his suffocating shyness. She moved like poetry with her hand out to slowly catch hold of the trembling horse.
“Born the king of angels. O come let us adore him.” Her slender, mittened hand was close to touching the fraying rope halter. “O come—”
“Let us adore him.” The words slipped out in his deeper baritone, surprising him.
She started, the horse shied. The bay threw his head out of her reach and with a protesting neigh, took off and merged with the snowy horizon.
“Look what you have done.” Gone was the music as she swirled to face him. He expected a tongue-lashing or at the very least a bit of a scolding for frightening the runaway. But as she marched toward him through the downfall, his chin dropped and his mind emptied. Snow-frosted raven curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face. The woman had a look of sheer perfection with sculpted high cheekbones, a dainty nose and the softest mouth he’d ever seen. If she were to smile, he reckoned she could stop the snow from falling.
He took in her riotous black curls and the