From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
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sleeping right beside him.
The willpower Clay had to exert to resist the longing told him what he had to do: he must take the girl back to the railroad. As soon as he could, he had to find some means to help her continue on her journey.
If he let her stay, not only would there be trouble when Mr. Hicks found out, but a month was long enough to start caring about another person. He didn’t want to let her crack his emotions wide open and wriggle her way into his heart, only to rip it out and take it with her when she left.
It had been bad enough when Lee and Billy died. If he became attached to this girl, it would be a thousand times worse when he found himself alone again. There was only one solution. The scrawny kid who was a girl had to go.
* * *
Despite the bright morning sun, Annabel woke up shivering with cold. Beneath her hat her coiled hair covered her scalp like a damp cap. Next time, she would have to wash her hair in the morning, to allow it time to dry. At least the blisters on her palms no longer hurt and her muscles ached only when she made a sudden move.
She looked around the cavern. The men and animals were gone. She lifted her arms in a lazy stretch, then stilled as the world outside exploded into a cacophony of noises—crashing and grating and the clanking of iron chains.
Startled, even a little frightened, Annabel lowered her arms. Making haste, she pulled on her boots and went outside, driven by curiosity and alarm as much as by hunger and thirst and other physical needs.
On the far side of the clearing, she could see the mule, harnessed to the arrastre, plodding round and round in a slow circle. The pair of huge rocks hanging from the spokes of the arrastre smashed against the smaller rocks in the confines of the stone pit, grinding up the ore.
The noise boomed in her ears. A cloud of dust floated over the arrastre pit. On the other side of the arrastre, Clay was walking up the path, carrying a bucket of water. When he noticed her, his gaze lingered on her with an intensity that banished the last of the early-morning chills.
Halting in her approach, Annabel watched Clay as he set the bucket on the ground and then ran around the arrastre pit to catch up with the mule. Taking hold of the harness, he brought the animal to a stop beside the water bucket.
The grinding noises ceased, leaving a sudden silence. The mule buried its long nose in the bucket and drank, with eager blowing and splashing that filled the quiet. Clay stroked the animal’s lathered flank and tugged at the harness, inspecting the hide to make sure the leather straps were not causing sores.
Annabel loitered over. She could tell Clay’s touch on the mule was gentle, just as it had been when he bandaged her hands. A rebellion stirred in her mind. It seemed to her that kindness and warmth simmered behind Clay’s cool facade, but he hoarded those emotions like a miser might hoard a bag of coins.
Something in her demanded that she force him to reveal those emotions, like her own emotions always flowed freely for others to see. She wanted to strike against the hard surface he presented to the world and make it crack, for no man could be made of stone the way he pretended to be.
She ambled closer. “You’re very kind to that mule. You must love the creature.”
Clay shot her a surly glance from beneath the brim of his hat. “No love to it. An injured animal is no good. It was the same with your blistered skin. You’ll be no good as a laborer if you can’t use your hands.”
“Are you comparing me with the mule?”
“The mule is a darn sight more valuable than a scrawny kid.”
His voice was deadpan, but Annabel could see a shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. She edged closer and peeked into the circle of stones. “How can I convince you of my value?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Will you teach me how to separate the gold from the gravel?”
She could feel Clay’s attention on her, saw him shift uneasily on his feet. Again, Annabel could sense his sudden withdrawal. “No,” he said curtly. “Not today. I need to crush the ore. There’s another cartful waiting at the mine. You can work in the kitchen. See what you can put together for a noonday meal.”
His rebuff ought to have offended her, but instead it triggered a frisson of excitement. She had little experience of young men, apart from the footmen and grooms at Merlin’s Leap, and they had treated her with a formal respect. She had never had a chance to banter with a young man, and now the challenge filled her with a heady fascination.
Leaving Clay to tend to the mule, Annabel went into the kitchen. A pot of coffee, still warm, stood on the table, with a plate of biscuits. And next to them, a jar of honey! She sat down, poured coffee into a cup and spread honey on two biscuits and devoured them, not touching the rest, in case they were intended as a midmorning snack for the men.
Finished, she dusted the crumbs from her fingers and examined the skin on her palms. There was no sign of infection, just some ragged edges of burst blisters that were beginning to harden into calluses.
Satisfied with the signs of healing, Annabel got up to survey the kitchen contents, starting with the row of grain bins beneath the work counter. Flour. Evaporated vegetables. Rice. Beans. More beans. Jerked meat, perhaps venison.
Her inspection progressed to the shelves. Canned goods. Tins of evaporated milk. Another jar of honey. A crock of cooking oil. Kerosene for lamps. Matches in a waterproof tin. A bag of salt and small pouches of spices, not imported ones, such as saffron or pepper, but some kind of native herbs.
There was plenty of flour, and Liza had taught her how to bake bread. Dinner would be beans and rice, with bread and honey for dessert. Annabel rolled up her sleeves and set to work.
The mule had resumed its plodding circle. The grinding noise boomed over the clearing. Dust floated in the air. Annabel stirred dough in a bowl, gripping the wooden spoon with her fingertips to ease the pressure on her blisters.
She took to singing a sea shanty, altering the words to suit the occasion. After a few verses, she raised her voice to compete with the crashing and banging and the clatter of the mule’s hooves.
They say, old Clay, your mule will bolt,
Oh, poor old Clay, your mule will bolt,
Oh, poor old Clay!
For thirty days you’ve ridden him,
And when he bolts I’ll tan his skin,
Oh, poor old Clay!
And if he stays you’ll ride him again,
You’ll ride him with a tighter rein,
Oh, poor old Clay!
When she got to the end, she started again, increasing the volume until she was bellowing out the words. So engrossed was she in the competition to produce the most noise that when the mule stopped, she went on, her voice preventing her from hearing the sound of footsteps as they thudded over.
“There you go again, scaring every living creature in the forest.”
Instead of pausing in the middle of a verse, Annabel put extra force in the final “poor old Clay” before she turned to face him.
The bowl nearly slipped from her fingers. He’d taken off his shirt! Standing on the edge of the kitchen, one arm lazily dangling from a timber post, Clay leaned forward and studied the evidence of her efforts.
“What are you making?” he asked.
Annabel tried to look away, but her eyes refused to obey. A strange new sensation clenched low in her belly. Her head spun, as if she’d been holding her breath for too long.
She gave up the attempt to avert her eyes and let her gaze roam over him. She could not recall ever seeing a man’s naked chest before, not even Papa’s, for a gentleman did not remove his shirt in the presence of his daughters.
Clay’s body was lean, his arms roped with muscle, and beneath the sheen of perspiration Annabel could see a