Kitabı oku: «Inheriting A Bride», sayfa 2
“Ban …” The kid’s arm twisted backward and his fingers searched the opening. “Those aren’t bandages,” he scoffed, flipping around. Drops of water dripped from his hat brim and plopped steadily onto his soaked, torn shirt.
Though he wanted to wrap the blanket around the kid, who was now visibly shivering with the after-effects of his icy dip, Clay didn’t move closer. Injured children were no different than injured animals. The thing to do was tread carefully, but firmly. “I know bandages when I see them.”
“They’re not bandages. Just give me the blanket.”
An odd sensation tickled Clay’s spine. Henry’s tone no longer held that note of gruffness. Actually, the way he stood, with one hand stretched out, the other folded across his chest, was like a woman shielding herself.
The shiver inching its way up Clay’s back turned into a fiery flash that all but snapped his spinal cord. “Tarnation,” he muttered, leaping forward to snatch away the floppy hat.
Wet strands of long hair fell in every direction, and squinting eyes full of fire and ice glared at him.
“It’s you!” he declared, as the fire reached his neck.
“Yes, Mr. Hoffman, it’s me,” Katherine Ackerman assured him. She stepped forward and grabbed the blanket from his hand, wrapping it around herself with a quick flip of her wrists. “I’ll probably end up with pneumonia, thanks to you.”
The woman before him looked nothing like the snooty canary he’d met at the station, and gazing at her now, sopping wet, in tattered boy’s clothes, with her mass of wet hair plastered to her head, Clay experienced a humorous rumble erupting. He pinched his lips to hold it in, but it burst from his chest with enough pressure that he had to toss his head back to let the entire bout of laughter out or else choke on it.
“I don’t find anything funny, Mr. Hoffman,” she screeched above his hooting.
“That’s because you’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
Caught up in laughing, Clay didn’t see her move until it was too late. Pain shot up his shin from where the toe of her boot struck him. He hopped on one foot and grabbed his other leg, applying pressure to stop the stinging.
Knowing that only time would ease the ache, he let go, and turned around to discover her using his other blanket to sop the water from her hair. As she finger-combed the tresses and squeezed the ends with the blanket, he wondered how all that hair had fit under one floppy hat. Furthermore, how had he not noticed he was a she?
“What are you doing out here, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts?”
“You know.” She bent, flipping her hair forward. The tresses almost touched the ground as she wrung them out with her hands and then shook them.
Moving away from the spray of droplets, he walked over to sit on a boulder and empty the water from his boots. “How would I know?”
Her hair made a graceful arch as she flipped her head up and turned to cast him a look—one of those glares that women produced and expected everyone to understand. And if truth were told, hers was quite adorable. Clay frowned at the thought, and went back to dumping water from one boot and then the other.
“You know I’m tracking Samuel Edwards.”
Her smugness, mixed in with that nasally accent, was charming. Clay stiffened and tugged on a boot. There was nothing about her, including her accent, that was charming, pleasant or even likable. She was like every other female gracing this earth—a conniving little imposter. This one even went so far as to dress up as a boy just to get her way.
Clay pulled on the other boot and stood. “Sam. His name’s Sam.” Walking across the grass, he didn’t stop until he stood right before her. “And you, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, are not tracking him.”
The way she sighed, the way she rolled her eyes, even the way she squared her shoulders irritated the pants off him, but her answer, “Yes, Mr. Hoffman, I am,” downright infuriated him.
“No, you’re not. If there’s anything you want to talk to Sam about, it goes through me.”
After an icy glare, she spun around.
“What do you want with him, anyway?”
She lifted her chin snootily and glanced over one shoulder. “That, Mr. Hoffman, is none of your business.”
He didn’t know if he wanted to insult her by laughing or by paddling her bottom. She deserved both. Instead he went with logic. “Tell me, Miss Ackerman, how do you plan to track him? You’ve lost your horse, have no supplies and …” he pointed a finger from her toes to her nose, wondering how to describe her appearance “… look like a cat caught in a downpour.”
“Thanks to you,” she spat.
“I’ll accept—” he looked her up and down pointedly “—your wet clothes are my fault, but I didn’t have anything to do with your horse.” He leaned closer to whisper, “It was probably the stench that got to him, too.”
“Oh,” she screeched, throwing the blanket off her shoulders.
The humor tickling his insides at her reaction faded. A moment later he wondered if she was being attacked by a swarm of insects, but then assumed, by the way she peered down the front of her shirt, searched the ground and patted her neckline, that she was looking for something.
“It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” he asked.
“My pouch. It must have fallen off in the water.” She grabbed the blanket off the ground, furiously searching its folds.
Still unaffected, he made a halfhearted effort of glancing around. “What pouch?”
“It was a little bag, about this big.” She held up a thumb and forefinger. “And brown, with little beads on the string pulling it closed.”
“What was in it?” Now, almost wondering if it held the Ackerman family fortune, given the way she searched, he scanned the earth more seriously.
“It must be in the pond.” She spun, shooting past Andrew.
The horse snorted and sidestepped, blocking Clay’s pursuit. He shoved his way around the animal and caught her arm. “You aren’t going to find it in there.”
“I have to. It must have slipped off when I dived for my hat.”
“When you dived for your hat?”
“Yes, it was sinking almost faster than I could swim.”
Clay clutched her arm a bit more firmly. “You dived after your hat?”
Her gaze scoured the water, as if she could see into the depths below. “The pouch must have slipped off my neck then.”
“I thought you were drowning.” Clay wanted to shake her. He twisted her instead, so he could glare straight into her face, upturned nose and all. “I jumped in an ice-cold pond to save you, and you were chasing a sinking hat?”
“You jumped in to save me?”
“Yes,” he all but growled.
“Why?”
“Because I thought you were drowning.” His voice rose with each word.
“That was unnecessary. I’m a perfectly good swimmer,” she replied, as her gaze went back to the pond.
The ire eating inside him was wasted on this woman, as was any more time. He let go of her arm and strode toward Andrew.
“Where are you going?”
Ignoring the urge to reply, he picked up his blankets.
“Aren’t you going to get my pouch?”
Acting calm wasn’t too hard, not when it so obviously irritated her. He folded the blankets in half and then began to roll them up to fit behind the saddle.
“You can’t leave.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, I can.” He tucked the roll behind his saddle, securing it with the leather straps.
“But—but I can’t stay here, not without my pouch.”
The tremble in her voice had him turning around. Again he questioned, “What was in that pouch?”
She shrugged.
“Why is it so important?”
“Because it’s an amulet.” She glanced around and then whispered, “Without it … well, I could be attacked by mountain lions or bears.”
Laughing long and hard was in Clay’s near future, yet he held it in, considering the seriousness of her gaze. “Where’d you get it?”
“An Indian chief in Black Hawk,” she answered.
Running Bear, sitting on the front porch of Big Ed’s store, no doubt. The Indian would sell anything, including his medicine pouch, it appeared, to gain enough money to buy a few sticks of Adam’s Black Jack. The man, who was not a chief, was completely addicted to the licorice-flavored chewing gum. “Tell me, Katherine,” Clay started, a bit surprised at how easily her name rolled off his tongue. “How did he come about giving you the amulet?”
“I was at the general store, buying supplies for my …” she paused to glance around nervously “… adventure pursuing Mr. Edwards, and the owner of the store refused to sell me a gun.”
Clay held in the shudder rippling his shoulders. It appeared Big Ed wouldn’t go so far as to do just anything to make a sale. He’d have to remember to thank the man. A gun and Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, would be a precarious pair. Lethal even. “Oh,” Clay said, while waiting for her to continue.
“Well, I was a touch miffed, you see.”
“A touch?”
“Well, a mite miffed.”
He nodded in agreement. As if a mite was more than a touch. What came next? A pinch? A bit? A tad?
“Yes, well,” she continued, “as I was leaving the building the chief was sitting on the porch. He, um, told me all about the lions and bears in this area. I asked him how his people have survived so long without being eaten by them.”
Bows and arrows, guns, knives, tomahawks, but mainly brains, Clay thought, but asked, “Oh? And what did he say?”
“He said they have secret ways. We talked a tad longer, and then he agreed to sell me an amulet that would repel bears and mountain lions.”
“A tad.” Clay nodded, knowing it would come up. It was hard to say if she was acting, or truly this gullible. Still dripping wet, she didn’t look to be a whole lot older than Sam, and nothing like the snooty woman at the train depot yesterday morning. “Tell me, did you look inside that little pouch?”
She cringed. “It didn’t smell very pleasant.”
“You don’t say?” Clay pressed a hand to the center of his forehead, right where it had started to hurt. Running Bear had probably put a dead fish in there. It was a wonder she hadn’t attracted bears and cats instead of repelling them.
Andrew let out a snort, and Clay turned to pat the animal’s neck. I know, boy. I know she’s loco. “Well, Katherine, Andrew and I have to get going. We’ll give you a ride back to Black Hawk, or you’re welcome to forge out on your own, chasing down Mr. Edwards, as you called him. It’s up to you.”
Kit was so engrossed in the way he said “Katherine,” not to mention quite enthralled that Clay Hoffman’s eyes were the exact same shade of blue as the bearded irises she’d planted near Gramps and Grandma Katie’s memorial stone, it was a moment or more before she realized he was waiting for her response, and then she had to pull up her acting voice. “Well, of course I’m returning with you. I couldn’t possibly remain out here without the amulet.”
The memory of the foul-smelling medicine bag was enough to make her shiver from head to toe. Yet she might need it again. The smell worked wonders in keeping others at bay, which was why she’d bought it.
She should be miffed at Clay for throwing her in the water as he had, but truth be told, it was amazing he’d stood the stench as long as he had. Of course, he didn’t realize she’d taken the pouch off last night and laid it near his side of the fire pit. She’d thought it would keep him on his side of the fire—which it had. Her initial fears had been more centered on coming across the fur-covered man in the wild, but a pompous gold-miner that held her livelihood in the palm of his hand was just as bad. That’s what Clay Hoffman was. And miners were a breed of their own—that’s what Grandma always said. Therefore Kit disliked every last one of them.
The man may have had Gramps duped, but his cocky grin and twinkling blue eyes couldn’t fool her. She’d have to deal with him, that was for sure, but first she had to learn exactly who Sam Edwards was, without Clay Hoffman learning she was Kit Becker and not Katherine Ackerman. If he discovered her identity, she might never learn the truth. She sighed. All in all, this was turning out to be far more complicated than she’d imagined.
He’d hoisted himself into the saddle and held out a hand. Given her choices, she took it, shoved a foot in the stirrup he made ready and climbed on the big roan behind him, barely flinching at the sting the movement caused. Squirming, making a more comfortable seat out of his jumbled bedroll, she grabbed the back swells of the saddle. “Ready, Mr. Hoffman.”
“Are you now?” he replied, sounding somewhat sarcastic.
Kit let it slide, just as she had most of his other comments. Now wasn’t the time. Besides, his eyes had told her more than his words had, anyway. Laughter had twinkled in those blue eyes at some of her exaggerated comments, and that reinforced how good of an actress she was. Of course, she’d never acted previous to this trip into the wilds of Colorado. But she was well-read. Books were her life, had taught her many things, including the importance of gaining the upper hand.
She wiggled a bit more. Her backside had taken to stinging again, and the bindings around her chest grew more and more uncomfortable. The strips of cotton were shrinking as they dried, no doubt, this being their first washing.
He twisted, tossed a quick glance over his shoulder, and she flashed him a grin, a syrupy one. Clayton Hoffman was not what she had expected. He couldn’t be much older than her, seven or eight years maybe, making him twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Much too young to be her grandfather’s partner. She’d truly anticipated an old geezer with one foot in the grave. A cringe had her sending up a silent plea, No offense, Gramps.
The smile that formed on her lips was real. She could hear his answer.
None taken, Kitten.
If Clayton Hoffman wasn’t sitting right in front of her, she might have talked to Grandpa Oscar a bit. Asked him how he and Grandma were getting along up there in heaven. But since now wasn’t the time or place, she was content just to smile, glad she still had this connection with the people who had raised her and loved her with great devotion. Grandpa Oscar’s trips to Colorado had been tough on Grandma Katie. She’d always fretted something terrible the entire time he was gone, and a piece of Kit was happy they were now together for eternity.
“So, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, how do you know Sam?”
She bit her lips, holding in mirth at just how ridiculous the name sounded when he said it like that. Katherine Ackerman had been her birth name, but she’d never been to Boston. “I don’t know him,” she answered, pulling up her best actress voice. It had taken practice to acquire a Bostonian accent. A woman she’d met on the train from Chicago to Denver had been her inspiration, and pride welled at how she was able to sound just like the woman had. She’d mastered it as well as the rough voice she’d used for her Henry disguise. “I want to meet him.”
Clay Hoffman repositioned his hat before he asked, “Why?”
“Because I want to meet a miner.” This particular miner, to whom, for some unknown reason, Gramps willed one half of his estate. It was all so frustrating. Sam’s name had never been spoken in her presence, nor a second partner ever mentioned. Clay Hoffman was a different matter. Gramps had talked nonstop about him.
“Sam’s not a miner,” he said.
His back had stiffened, as if he was bracing himself for her argument, and though she did want to insist Sam was a miner, and she would meet him, Kit bit her tongue to keep from arguing. Once back in Black Hawk, she’d just rent another horse and search for him again. Of course, she’d have to come up with another disguise.
“I read a playbill on the train, about the opera house in Nevadaville,” she said, aloud. “Does it really seat four hundred people?” Having read the advertisements on the train could prove beneficial. Gramps had never mentioned the opera house, but they must certainly have a wardrobe full of costumes, and Nevadaville was only five miles from Black Hawk, by train.
“Yes, why?” he answered, sounding skeptical, almost angry.
“Boston has several wonderful opera houses, and I’m curious what one in the wilds of Colorado would look like.” That sounded plausible, didn’t it? Surely Boston had an opera house. Chicago did, and she truly enjoyed watching the plays. If that silly horse she’d rented hadn’t run off, she wouldn’t be worrying whether Boston had opera houses or not. She’d be finding out exactly who Sam Edwards was.
The best laid plans of mice and men, she quoted silently, pressing a hand to her temple. Once she knew the truth, she could decide what to do. The only thing that made sense was that Grandpa had another family. One not even Grandma knew about. It was unfathomable, yet why else would Gramps have included Sam in the will, and at the same amount as her? Clay Hoffman seemed as protective over Sam’s identity as Gramps’s solicitor, Mr. Watson.
It appeared no one wanted Kit to know the truth.
“So, Miss—”
Interrupting Clay, not done contemplating her thoughts, she leaned forward and whispered, “You don’t think there’s a bear or mountain lion following us, do you?”
Chapter Two
His back stiffened again and Kit swore she saw his neck quiver slightly.
“No, I don’t believe there are any bears or mountain lions following us. They are few and far between in this area.”
Gramps had never mentioned the animals, so she figured they weren’t an issue, yet he hadn’t mentioned Sam, either. “I sure do wish we’d found my amulet,” she whispered.
“I’m sure the chief will sell you another.”
She puffed out her cheeks, really wishing for a moment of quiet. “Oh, do you think so?” She’d come up with bears and mountain lions off the top of her head. A woman from Boston would be afraid of such things and believe an amulet from a chief would save her—and it had proved useful. Once in Black Hawk she’d ask the old Indian if he had another one. It had cost only a package of chewing gum. He’d been the one to tell her if she put a dead fish in it no one would come close to her, and had even told her where to find the fish.
“Yes,” Clay answered.
Thankfully, he let the conversation slip then. The scenery was quite beautiful, all lush and green, just as Gramps had explained. Her fingernails dug into the thick leather at the back of the saddle and a shiver skirted up her spine. Kit held her breath, refusing to remember how frightful the train ride into Black Hawk had been.
Clay glanced over his shoulder, and she tried, but knew the smile on her face wobbled. He stared harder and she averted her gaze, glancing at the surroundings.
“You doing all right back there?”
“Um, yes,” she mumbled.
“You sure?” Those blue eyes were frowning, and he shifted as if trying to get a better look at her. His movements had her repositioning and glancing around. The mountains weren’t as intimidating while on horseback. Zigzagging around the Rockies in that train had instilled a fear inside her like she’d never known. Grandma Katie would have been appalled to hear her talk so, but Kit had to tell the train agent how offensive the ride had been. Then again, Grandma would be upset that she’d left the house empty and embarked on this journey at all. Maybe it was a family trait—fear of train rides—for it appeared Sam didn’t like trains, either, considering he’d taken the trail to Nevadaville. That was a nice thought, knowing she and Sam already had something in common.
“You sure?” Clay Hoffman repeated.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m fine. Just fine.”
“The mountains make you nervous?” he asked, looking straight ahead, but nonetheless drawing her full attention.
Kit squared her shoulders. “No.”
“You aren’t a very good liar, Miss Ackerman.”
She drew in a determined breath. Agreeing with Clayton Hoffman was not something she’d do, no matter how accurate he might be.
Kit let silence speak for her. It was a damnable situation, as Gramps would say—this one she found herself in. Yet she’d have to put up with Clay in order to get back to Black Hawk.
Wiggling, she repositioned her bottom on the bedroll. Her clothes were drying quickly and not overly uncomfortable, but the dampness irritated the spot on her backside that had grown tender yesterday while she’d been riding the rented horse.
The animal, white with liver-colored spots, had been gentle enough, but slipping about in the saddle while the horse picked its way over the rough trail had been quite tedious, and the thick wool of the britches Kit had bought from the Chinese washwoman at the hotel had chafed her bottom from the constant motion. There was one spot in particular where she wondered if there was any skin left.
It was a while later when Clay glanced over his shoulder again. “You sure you’re doing all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” she lied, flinching at another sliver of pain commencing in her bottom. Tightening her leg muscles, she held her breath, hoping that would help.
His gaze roamed over her face in such a way Kit felt as if she were a newspaper being read.
“Are you hungry?” he finally asked. “We didn’t have any breakfast. I have some jerky and bread.”
Would she be able to get back on the horse if she got down? The tenderness had grown stronger, now throbbed as painfully as it had yesterday when she’d climbed off her rented horse. That’s when the animal had run off, while she’d been nursing her injury, much too sore to chase after it. Kit eased her weight onto the opposite hip and held in a groan. “How much farther is it?”
“To Black Hawk?”
“Yes.”
“It’s only about five miles as the crow flies, but ten or more for us.”
A heavy dread settled on her shoulders. “That far?”
“Yes. Have you forgotten how far you traveled yesterday?”
No, she almost blurted, though her backside was a constant reminder. “It didn’t seem that far,” she admitted from between clenched teeth. He might as well have said a hundred miles. The way her bottom throbbed she’d be lucky to make it one, let alone ten. The horse’s gait, though smooth and even, made riding on one hip impossible. She placed a hand on the animal’s glossy-haired rump, which rose and fell with each step, and braced herself against the movement. “Maybe we could get down and rest for a while. I’m sure Andrew would appreciate that.”
“We’ll stop at that next plateau.” Clay pointed a short distance up the hill. “There’s a set of trees that’ll give some shade. The higher the sun gets, the stronger the rays become.”
Kit nodded, knowing full well he couldn’t see her actions. But short of groaning, it was the best she could do. Setting her gaze on the terrain, she tried to focus on something besides the pain, knowing the more she thought about the stinging, the worse it became. It was like that with most things—the harder you thought or fretted, the larger they became. Gramps said that all the time. It was true about his will, too.
And Clayton Hoffman. A year ago, when she’d first learned of the terms of Grandpa Oscar’s will, she’d accepted everything readily enough, too filled with grief to really care. But now that she’d been on her own for a year, and the pain of her grandparents’ passing was easier to deal with, she’d discovered she needed to know the truth. Others didn’t understand the driving need inside her. How could they? They had families. She had no one. Not a single person on earth related to her. The gaping hole that left inside her was indescribable, and it seemed to be sucking the very life out of her. An old ticket stub to Black Hawk she’d found in one of Grandpa’s books had seemed like a sign, and no matter what she discovered, it would be better than not knowing.
Mr. Watson, Grandpa’s solicitor, certainly didn’t understand. Not only did he refuse to give her any details, he said she couldn’t go to Colorado, leastwise not without Clay Hoffman’s permission—a man she’d never met, only heard about from Gramps.
It appeared that he—Clay Hoffman—was not only her financial guardian, he was in charge of everything: her finances until she was twenty-one, and several other aspects of her life until she turned twenty-five. If she waited until then she’d die of loneliness.
Impulsive, that’s what Grandma Katie had always called her. Kit hadn’t minded then, and she didn’t mind now. If a few hastily laid plans would reveal the truth, it would be well worth it. The spontaneous trip across the country had become an adventure for her, one that instilled a sense of excitement and freedom she’d never known.
Other than the sting in her backside, which at this very moment was letting itself be known with renewed force, the trip had been painless—terrifying at times, but painless.
“Here we are.” Clay drew the horse to a stop.
A sigh of relief built in her chest, but she couldn’t let it out. Thinking of climbing off the horse instantly doubled her anxiety. The now constant ache said movement would hurt. Severely.
The way Clay swung his knee over the saddle horn and bounded to the ground as effortlessly as a cat jumped off a branch had every muscle tightening from her head to her toes. Kit chewed on a fingertip, both to redirect the pain and to contemplate how she could manage without—
“Oh!”
Hands had wrapped around her waist, lifted her and planted her feet on the ground all in one swift movement. Regaining fortitude while clouds literally swirled before her eyes seemed impossible, and her breath caught inside her lungs at the smarting sting shooting down her legs. Eventually, she managed to squeak, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, already leading the horse to a patch of grass. “I noticed dismounting isn’t a strong suit for you.”
His back was to her, but the humor in his voice couldn’t be ignored. “Dismounting?” she asked, as indignation sprouted out of that fiery sting. “I’ll have you know I’m a quite accomplished rider.”
“Oh?” He was looking at her over one broad shoulder. His grin, which was way too appealing for a man of any age or rank, brightened his entire face, and those blue eyes twinkled as if someone had dropped stardust in them. “You ride around Boston, do you?”
Firelight, the little pony she’d had while growing up, came to her mind. The Shetland had been as white as snow, and the two of them had worn out the grass in the back paddock.
“I assumed you’d travel about in gold carriages, complete with velvet seats and little tassels hanging off the hood,” he continued, while digging in his saddlebags.
The fact he’d described the buggy—white, not gold—that was parked in her carriage house back in Chicago should irritate her. In reality, it made her smile. “Jealous, are you?”
“No.”
His cheekbones were slightly tinged red. That, too, excited her in a unique and secretive way. “I think you are.”
“You think wrong, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts.” He held up a canvas bag and nodded toward the grove of trees. “Hungry?”
She turned to follow, which was a mistake. The first step had her gulping. Walking was worse than riding. Picking a slow trail, pretending to scrutinize the lay of the land, she made her way after him.
“A little sore?” That irritating grin of his was back.
“No,” she lied.
“That why you offered to walk earlier?”
She cast him her best “you’re annoying me” gaze.
He grinned and sat down, digging into the bag.
By the time she arrived at his side, he’d laid out several pieces of jerky, a crusty loaf of bread, broken in half, and two apples on a blue-and-white-plaid napkin. But it was the ground, which looked as hard as the leather-covered train seats had been, that held her attention. If she sat, she might never get up, yet her stomach growled as her eyes darted toward the food.
He stood. “I have to get the canteen.”
She nodded absently, still wondering how painful sitting would prove to be. Perhaps she could stand while eating. If he’d hand her the food, she wouldn’t even need to bend over.
Still contemplating options, she glanced his way when he returned. Along with the canteen, he had the two blankets that made up his bedroll. Quite honorably, he folded one and then the other, and stacked them on the ground.
“Try that,” he said, patting the blankets.
Kit pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and met his gaze.
“It’s obvious, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, that you’re sore from being in the saddle too long.”
“Obvious?”
He was a large man, with broad shoulders and bulky arms covered in a tan flannel shirt and leather vest. But the kindness simmering in his blue eyes made him look like a proper gentleman who might come calling on a Saturday night.
That thought did something to her insides, had things stirring around in a very peculiar way.
“Happens to everyone now and again.” He held out a hand, inviting her to take the seat he’d prepared.
The stirring inside her grew warmer, something Kit thought she should question, but instead, another unusual instinct had her accepting his offer by placing her hand in his. He flinched sympathetically as she lowered herself, and his compassion somehow eased the sting as she settled onto the blanket. “Thank you, Mr. Hoffman.” Feeling a need to justify something—whether her abilities or the odd things going on inside her—she added, “I have ridden before.”
His brows arched enigmatically. “I’ve no doubt you have, Katherine.” Clay handed her a long strip of jerky and forcibly bit the end off another piece. He chewed slowly, sitting there beside her and gazing across the hillside.
