Gingham Bride - By Jillian Hart Page 0,46

the lid. It was too dark to see. Her pulse fluttered wildly. Was her money gone? She bit her lip, forced her hands to stop shaking and held the box up to a slat of moonlight slanting between the boards.

The sock was still there, the contents of the box untouched, the locket glinting faintly in the starlight. What a relief. She grabbed her stash of money, and there was the picture he had drawn. An illustration of a girl and her horse, but on this night she saw something more. The swirl of the wind-driven snow, the stretch of the unseen prairie, the spirit of freedom that somehow came from lashing lines of ink on a page. Almost as if he understood. As if he knew her spirit’s longing.

And if he knew that, surely he would understand. She had to leave. She stuffed her savings into the top of her satchel, the hay crackling beneath her step. “I have an offer to make you, McPherson.”

“Do tell.” A smile crept into his tone; he thought he had won.

She crept deeper into the mow. He still waited for her to come down the ladder. He must think there was no other way out of the barn. It did not feel right to trick him, but then wasn’t that what he had done to her? A few more paces brought her to the loading door. “You stay here with the land, and I’ll go where I please. Da will be rid of the expense of me, and you won’t be forced to marry to get what you want.”

“Is that what you think? That I am using you to get the land?”

“Why else would you accept Da’s offer?” She shouldered open the heavy door and prayed no boards would creak.

“Have I said a single word about marriage?”

“Not directly.”

“And surely you do not think there will be a wedding tonight or tomorrow?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Then why the rush to leave? You will be safe here, lass. This is your home.”

“And you’re using this for an argument?” The icy air felt welcome against her face. She gripped the rope and gave it a testing tug. “I’ve been hurt enough here. I shall take my chances in that big, dangerous world you are afraid of.”

“Do you know what a boardinghouse costs by the week? What of your meals? What if you have trouble finding work? What will you do then? Your savings isn’t enough. It won’t see you far.” Caring rang like a true bell, perfect in pitch and honesty.

A part of her longed to stay, if only for the promise of caring in his voice. As much as she longed to be truly cared for, she did not trust it. The rope held, so she transferred her weight. The door swung closed, bashing her in the shoulder. She bit her lip, ignored the pain and dug her shoes into the hemp. She had to stop thinking of Ian. She inched downward, gritting her teeth as the door bashed her again. She caught it and waited a beat, easing it closed with what she hoped was the smallest of sounds. How long would it take for him to figure out she was gone?

Probably not long. She tossed her satchel. It landed with a muted thump in the soft remnants of hay left over from the morning’s feed. The platinum moonlight focused on her like a beacon so she went fast, sliding some of the way, going hand over hand the rest. No time to waste. She hit the ground, grabbed her satchel and ran. Was Ian still talking at her, waiting for an answer? Still trying to convince her that marriage was the best of her choices?

Her breath rose in white clouds as she skidded to a stop at the first stall door—Flannigan’s. All she had to do was to release the latch, and the horse would come running. She’d catch a handful of mane, swing up onto him and they would be off, following the call of the prairie and the lure of the moon. She would be free.

A footstep crunched in the snow behind her—Ian, larger than life and radiating fury. She stared at him, disbelieving. Was that really him and not a figment of her fears?

“Going somewhere, lass?” His anger boomed in the empty corral, resounding against the flawless night.

“How did you—”

“I’ve done the same a time or two when I was a boy.” He wrenched the gate open and pounded into