The Negotiated Marriage. Christina Rich
Читать онлайн книгу.
her shoulder, Camy squinted through the dappling of grey morning light filtering through the thick canopy of leaves until the man came into focus. His bare feet ebbed and flowed with the current of the river. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. She couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the beauty here. Wisps of smoke rose from the charred firewood, telling her he’d camped the night in her favorite place of solitude, a place away from Mara’s continuous chatter of prospective husbands and Ellie’s melancholy, a state she’d been in since she returned home last August after months with a distant cousin. Anger sparked and burned through her veins at the intrusion.
After all the railroad’s attempts at acquiring their land before the winter, Camy should have known they’d come creeping through the woods once the weather warmed. She only wished she knew why they wanted the Simses’ land. It was far from ideal, at least to her way of thinking. There were places closer to town where the land lay flat and the banks were more even, places where the river wouldn’t wash the railroad’s bridge downstream. If only this man were a simple passerby who had been lured by the languorous song of the water trickling over the rocks and the serenade of the birds. Given that a wayward stranger hadn’t passed by here since she could remember, his presence meant one thing: he was trying to gain access to her land. And that just wouldn’t do. Did he come expecting their gratefulness at a measly offer, or did he come ready to make threats and burn their home down?
She intended to find out even though her sisters would complain at her dallying too long as Mara, no doubt, would be anxious to complete morning chores so they could go to town. Camy’s younger sister loved the social blur of town life, whereas Ellie and Camy only wanted to discreetly discover details about any strangers who might be a threat to them. The latest gossip from Mrs. Smith, Rusa Valley’s socialite, was about a man. Tall, handsome and more important, according to Mara, richer than King Solomon. As if those things were all that mattered in a prospective husband.
But from the looks of this man, he wasn’t rich or handsome, at least not in the sense her sisters claimed. No doubt they’d thank her for taking the time to scoot the scallywag right off their land once they got over their anger at her dealing with him on her own. Besides, if Ellie knew about the stranger, she’d demand they all move into town as she’d threatened to do after the last incident with a group of ruffians. No amount of money, bluff and bluster could entice Camy to leave her home.
Picking up the water bucket, Camy crept down the well-worn path, focused on the still figure. After all, it wouldn’t do for her to be caught unaware. Why, what if the man was only playing possum? Her sisters would think her silly, as no man in his right mind would play dead in his bare feet. Not around here leastways. There were too many thorns ready to pierce clear to the bone, and she should know given that Ellie had doctored her feet plenty of times. As she got closer to the stranger, she knew that no man would played possum with his feet in the icy water and the rest of his body at an odd angle with his arms strung out. His lip bloodied.
Camy skidded to a halt. Clumps of dirt rolled down the path until they splashed into the water. Was he dead?
She couldn’t very well leave him there, dead or alive. If he was alive she’d give him a swift kick to his backside, and if he wasn’t, well, she’d just have Ellie fetch the Drs. Northrop, all three of them. Of course, if he was already dead, she could just roll him into the water. The river would wash him past Sims Ferry and on down to Doc Northrop’s Landing where the old doctor most likely dipped his pole in the water. The man would be the doctors’ problem, not hers.
Camy shoved her spectacles back onto the bridge of her nose and shifted her gaze over the still body, looking for any hint of life. She drew in a fortifying breath and eased down the rest of the path until she was only a few feet from his body. Waves of chestnut locks blanketed his brow, covering his eyes. Her fingers itched to brush the strands away for her to see if his lashes were as thick and dark as she imagined. Even with the bloodied lip and shadow of a beard, handsome didn’t even come close to describing the chiseled jaw and aquiline nose. He was beautiful.
Her gaze roamed toward his chest. The tension holding her shoulders taut released at the steady rise and fall. She took note of its wide berth, the way his shirt stretched tight. Corded forearms, visible from his rolled sleeves. He no longer seemed like a stranger, but like a man who belonged in the country. A man who belonged here. In her place. Her secret place, and that just wouldn’t do at all.
She took a few steps closer and jabbed him with the barrel of her rifle. “Mister, are you hard of hearing? Or daft?”
He groaned. As he turned his head, his dark locks fell, revealing thick, dark lashes and mossy green eyes hooded by thick, dark eyebrows. He clasped his hand to his head.
“You need to be getting out of here, mister.”
He groaned again as he eased into a sitting position. He pulled his feet out of the water and his knees into his chest and then buried his face into his hands. Blood stained the rock near where his head had been. Crimson-matted clumps of hair stuck out at odd angles from the back of his head. Someone obviously took a strong disliking to him to leave him here like this. She wanted to help, to inspect his wounds as her sister Ellie would do, but after all the schemes the railroad had pulled last year, she wouldn’t put this one beyond them too.
“Mister, you can’t sit here all day. More than likely the sky is about to unleash a torrent and this here river will flood. If you don’t want to be going for a swim downriver, I suggest you get moving.”
He lifted his head and squinted at her through a swollen and blackening eye as if she’d lost her wits. His gazed roamed over her from head to toe and back again until he settled on her face. “Where am I? Where’s my horse?”
Camy glanced around the trees. “I don’t know anything about your horse, mister. This here’s Sims Creek. At least here in this little bend. Upriver it’s Northrop River and downriver the same. But right here, it’s Sims Creek.”
His brow furrowed. “Hamish Sims?”
A sickening thud dropped into Camy’s stomach. Had her uncle turned yellow-bellied and befriended the enemy? Most certainly not. He’d made a promise, and a Sims always kept a promise. Excepting her da. This was just another ploy. Camy moved back a few paces and motioned toward his coat with the rifle. “Get your stuff and get off my land.”
He massaged the back of his neck and then unfolded to his full height. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a glare that begged for a fight. Gold-flecked daggers flashed from his eyes, causing a shiver of caution to race down her spine. Perhaps she should agree to leave her home and take her sisters to town where they’d be happier and much safer.
He thrust his hands on his hips. “Your land?”
“That’s right, mister.” Camy rooted her feet in place. It wasn’t exactly hers alone, but Hamish had promised it to her and she wouldn’t allow this stranger’s height to intimidate her and make her give up her fight so easily.
He swayed toward her, one corner of his mouth curving upward as if he knew something she didn’t, and then held out his hand. “Duncan Murray.”
The earthy scent emanating from him assaulted her senses, catching her off guard. The name suited his towering height and brawny muscles. If she pulled on her memories, she could hear tales spun by her mother and could almost imagine him brandishing a sword in the plaid buried in the bottom of her mother’s trunk. His name was strong and true to his heritage. However, the way he stifled his accent indicated he was not so proud to be a Scotsman. If there was one thing both her parents taught her and her sisters, it was to never be ashamed of their heritage. Never.
“I dinnae care who you are, Mr. Murray.” She allowed her own accent, faded through the years, to thicken as she straightened her spine and propped the butt of the rifle against her shoulder. “I do not want to shoot you, but I will if I must.”
“And I have no wish to be shot.”
Before she knew what he was about, he closed the distance between them and removed the rifle from her hands. Losing her footing, she slid down the bank and sucked in a sharp breath as the icy water