Once Upon a Mail Order Bride - Linda Broday Page 0,42
cow were familiar chores that she’d missed while in prison.
She caught his glance and smiled, and his heart tumbled end over end. He stared at her, mesmerized for a long moment, thankfulness tightening his chest before he sighed and lifted the pail of fresh milk. Time to get moving.
After a hearty breakfast, Ridge took his plate to the dishpan. “Bodie, I’ll put you to work repairing some harnesses and other barn chores you can do sitting down. Stay off that leg.”
The fifteen-year-old shook back his long hair and frowned. “I don’t need to be coddled. I came to work.”
“I know that, but for now, you have to go easy. I’m not going to have Dr. Mary coming after me when your leg doesn’t heal.” Ridge nudged Miss Kitty lightly out of the way with the toe of his boot. “Addie and I have to go see the doctor this morning. I’ll leave you armed, Bodie. If anyone comes sneaking around, shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy stood, nearly as tall as Ridge when he wasn’t stooping over the crutch. As the boy maneuvered through the door and outside, Addie removed her apron and hurried into the next room.
“I’ll saddle the horses,” Ridge called after her, but before he could move to the door, she was back. She handed him two pieces of notepaper, her hand shaking.
“What’s this?” Ridge took them from her and read her neat angled handwriting. The first one told about her father. New Messiah his hind foot! He’d heard of those kinds of radical beliefs. Ridge struggled to tamp down his anger. This wasn’t the time for him to indulge in personal feelings on the matter. This was about Addie and the way she was trusting him with buried secrets.
He moved to the second torn sheet of paper, and fury grew in his stunned silence. He couldn’t believe the depths to which Ezekiel Jancy’s obsession had seemingly gone, the degradation he’d inflicted. A horrible picture emerged, one that twisted and turned inside him. A public whipping post. For a long moment, he fought to erase the image of Addie being punished for rebellion against such injustice.
What had she done to help the young girl in her letter?
Whatever it was, it had landed her in prison. He realized she was waiting for his reaction. He knew beyond a doubt that the happiness of their marriage hinged on what he said next.
Ridge laid the papers on the table and took her hands. “Thank you for feeling comfortable enough to share those things with me. If you truly care for someone, you let them into your life—as you’ve done. I’m very proud of you and what you’ve overcome.” His voice turned raspy with emotion. He kissed her forehead. “You’re my hero. My angel.”
Addie stepped back and made wild gestures with her arms, then grabbed the paper and wrote: “No! I’m not brave, not strong enough. Don’t put me on a pedestal.”
“We can argue this point all day, so I’ll drop it, but whatever you did to help that girl was the right thing. Thank God you didn’t listen to that crazy talk and let your father tell you what to think. I’ve heard of zealots like him before.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a loud sigh, wishing he could find the right words to say what he wanted, but they escaped him. Finally, he broke the silence. “Will you show these to Dr. Mary?”
She pointed to the first one, about her father and nodded. The other had evidently been meant only for Ridge. Baby steps.
He smiled. “Ready to go hum to some songs?”
A mischievous grin spread across her face and she scribbled the words “Old Joe Clark.”
The song had long been a favorite of his, sung in Hope’s Crossing whenever they gathered at the large outdoor community fire, a tradition the men had started three years ago when they’d first decided to build the old outlaw hideout into a real town.
Ridge laughed heartily and tweaked her nose. “You do have a sense of humor, my love. If that’s what you want to hum along to, then I’ll move mountains to make it happen.” They strolled arm in arm to the horses, all thoughts of the New Messiah momentarily forgotten.
Eleven
Addie emerged from Dr. Mary’s office feeling lighter than she had for years. She could only imagine that it was the songs—they seemed to be unlocking every pent-up thought inside her. She’d shown the doctor the short paragraph she’d