Buch lesen: «Inheriting A Bride»
“I didn’t know that was Oscar’s Kit sitting with you. She sure is a cute little thing, ain’t she?”
A tic tugged at Clay’s brow as he shook his head, causing him to press a finger to his temple. The eerie sensation had him saying, “Kit Becker?”
Clay’s mind was spinning, as was his stomach. He took the stairs leading up to his office above the Land and Claims Office two at a time and threw open the door, his heart skipping several beats.
Kit.
Katie.
Katherine.
Kit.
Damn.
Katherine Ackerman was Kit Becker.
“Aw, hell,” Clay muttered as he fell onto his desk chair.
What was she up to, pretending to be someone else? A growl rumbled out of his throat. What was he up to? He’d kissed her. Kissed his ward. And furthermore, while holding her on the train, he’d thought about doing a whole lot more than kissing.
About the Author
LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is Western historical. When asked why, she says, ‘Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.’
With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one she took the challenge, and has loved every minute of the journey.
Lauri lives in rural Minnesota, where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part-time, volunteers for several organisations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favourite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota, on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.
Previous titles from Lauri Robinson:
UNCLAIMED BRIDE
HIS CHRISTMAS WISH
(part of All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas)
Also available in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:
WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER
HER MIDNIGHT COWBOY
NIGHTS WITH THE OUTLAW
DISOBEYING THE MARSHAL
TESTING THE LAWMAN’S HONOUR
THE SHERIFF’S LAST GAMBLE
WHAT A COWBOY WANTS
AUTHOR NOTE
Behind every book is a story, and here’s the one behind INHERITING A BRIDE.
What first came to me was the scene of Clay tossing Henry into the pond. Over the next few days I realised Henry wasn’t Henry, but Kit, and that intrigued me, had me wondering why Kit was pretending to be a boy. As the story started to unfold I came to the conclusion that I needed to know a lot more about gold-mining in the 1800s before I could put pen to paper, so I started researching.
The internet is marvellous, but unless you know where you’re going it can be like throwing a dart. Lucky for me, one of my searches landed on the amazing website of a ‘hobby’ miner. It provided me with a vast amount of information, but I was still floundering. I needed specific questions answered in order to grasp an understanding of the process so I could import the needed bits and pieces into my story. Not because the book explains gold-mining in the 1800s, but because if I understood the process, and all that went along with it, I could then gain a deeper understanding of Clay and the issues he faced in becoming the guardian of his partner’s wayward grandchildren.
I emailed Mr Ralph, the owner of the website, and asked if I could interview him. Bless his heart, he not only agreed, and spent a considerable amount of time on the phone answering my questions, he sent me several e-mails with links to amazing sites, including videos.
I wrote Clay and Kit’s story, but Chris Ralph gave me the backbone—the information I needed to get to know my characters and really tell their story. Without him—a man I will probably never meet in person—I would have never been able to write INHERITING A BRIDE.
Life is like that—it puts people into our lives just when we need them. Strangers or not. Remember that, believe it, and you’ll see it in your life, too.
I sincerely hope you enjoy Kit and Clay’s story.
Inheriting
a Bride
Lauri Robinson
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
To Chris Ralph, for so generously sharing
all of his knowledge and insight on gold-mining.
Chapter One
Northern Colorado, 1885
A variety of passengers scurried across the wooden platform of the Black Hawk depot, but only one held Clay Hoffman’s attention, or better yet, his irritation. Women had a way of annoying him, and this one was in a tizzy, waving her hands, gesturing toward the train as she spouted off to Stan Thomas, the porter. Though he had no doubt the man could handle the situation, Clay moved to the depot door. Perhaps her luggage had been damaged or something. Loads had been known to shift during the ride up the mountain from Denver. That was why he was giving this woman, dressed in her canary-colored finery, the benefit of the doubt. His sister insisted he needed to do that once in a while. Therefore he was trying, but in reality, not getting too far. Old habits and all that.
“Clay?” Stan motioned for him to approach. “This is Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts.”
Clay nodded, stepping closer and briefly assessing the woman, whose fancy bird-yellow outfit included a feathered hat with a lacy veil falling almost to her nose. Some might claim she deserved a second look, but he had no time for women, pretty or not, and turned his gaze to Stan, waiting to hear what the issue was.
“I’m inquiring as to the whereabouts of one Samuel Edwards,” she said before Stan could speak.
Clay’s insides froze as he narrowed his gaze on the little veil hiding most of Katherine Ackerman’s face. “Why?”
She lifted her chin a bit higher. “That is between Mr. Edwards and me. Now if you’ll be so kind as to—”
“No,” Clay said. The fact she’d called Sam “mister” told him all he needed to know. The kid was barely seventeen. Anyone who knew him knew that.
“No?” she repeated. “No what?”
Clay had a dozen questions about what a woman such as this—clearly from out East, by the sound of her nasally little voice—would want with Sam, but none of them mattered. She would never meet his ward. That, of course, should be Sam’s decision, but Sam liked his privacy and Clay knew women. This one even smelled like trouble—all sweet and flowery. He turned to the porter. “Was there something else she needed?”
Stan, one of the finest railroad men in the territory, hesitated and then cleared his throat. “Miss Ackerman was a bit upset by the, uh … accommodations on the ride from Denver.”
What a surprise. Train rides up a mountain were very different from train rides across the plains, and those out East, no doubt. Going down wasn’t any better. Judging by her appearance and attitude, this woman wouldn’t be happy about anything unless it was the very best, which made Clay’s spine tighten. He rerouted his thoughts. Sam had never been out of the mountains, but the kid’s father had, and a part of Clay always wondered if someone would show up, claiming to be a relative. With a single nod, Clay turned to the woman. “I apologize if your train ride was uncomfortable.” It wasn’t his usual policy, but she’d already wasted enough of his time. “Stan,” he said to the porter, “refund the passenger’s fare and give her a ticket back to Denver.”
“Denver?” she all but sputtered. “I don’t want a refund,” she added snootily. “I want to know the whereabouts of Sam—”
“I,” Clay informed her, nerves ticking, “am Sam’s representative. I’ll deliver a message to him for you.”
“No,” she said. “I prefer to talk to him in person.”
“That’s not possible,” Clay retorted, his voice just as clipped as hers. His hackles were rising by the second. Outside of a few miners, Sam didn’t interact with people much, and Clay respected that.
“Why not?”
“Are you a relative of his?” He might as well get to the bottom of it.
She swallowed but didn’t answer, and the little veil made it impossible for him to see more than her chin and pert lips, which were drawn into a pucker.
Just as he suspected. A woman after the kid’s money. “Sam’s not a social person,” he said. “If you want to give me a message—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I—”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Refund her money, Stan.” Clay spun around and started making his way toward the other end of town. That was the second person asking about Sam in less than twenty-four hours. A message from Big Ed over at the general store had arrived this morning, saying a trapper was asking questions about Clay’s ward, and now this woman turned up. The first incident wasn’t too much of a surprise; Sam’s father had been a trapper, and others probably wondered what had become of the boy. But a snooty woman from out East made no sense at all. The ride to Sam’s place next to the Wanda Lou was a long one, and Clay had a thousand other things to do. But Sam was his responsibility, and warning him about this woman couldn’t wait. Plus he had some business to follow up on, anyway—a miner causing a bit of trouble. Best to nip it in the bud. The kid didn’t like taking the train, preferred to borrow a mule from the mine to haul his furs to Black Hawk, and had left town only a few hours ago.
Clay swallowed a sigh as he started up the street. Good thing he’d brought his horse with him on the train from Nevadaville this morning. The ones at the livery here were as barn sour as they came. If luck was with him, he could finish his business and still catch up to Sam before nightfall.
Kit Becker stared at the man walking away, half in utter disbelief, half in relief. Encountering Clayton Hoffman this early in her adventure was not in her plan. She wanted to meet Sam first. Had to meet Sam first. The desire to lift her veil so she could see the man more clearly, even if it was just his back, was hard to curtail, but she kept her hands at her sides. The veil was part of the disguise she needed to maintain.
“Right this way, Miss Ackerman.”
It was a moment before Kit realized the porter was addressing her. She hadn’t gotten used to the name. She had used the alias so her grandfather’s solicitor, Mr. Watson, wouldn’t learn she had left Chicago. Purchasing her ticket under a different name guaranteed a bit of time in her search for Samuel Edwards. That was another name that made her want to shake her head. Why hadn’t Gramps told her about him? It just didn’t make sense. Both he and Grandma Katie knew how badly she’d always wished their family was larger, and this past year, since their deaths, her loneliness had grown overwhelming and she’d wished it even more.
“Ma’am?”
Turning to the man dressed in his bright blue suit with gold buttons, she sighed. “I don’t want a refund. I just wanted … oh, never mind.” The train ride that had left her wanting to kiss the ground was no longer a concern. Finding her only living relative was. She dug in the drawstring bag on her wrist, pulled out a coin to hand to the man. “I apologize, sir, for the fuss, but I’m fine now. Would you be so kind as to see my luggage is taken to the hotel?”
“Yes, ma’am, but Mr. Hoffman said—”
“I am not concerned about Mr. Hoffman, or his refund.” She spun around and stepped off the platform, wondering where to start her search. All she knew was that Gramps had traveled to Black Hawk. Her eyes, practically of their own accord, turned in the direction Clay Hoffman had taken. He most definitely knew where Samuel Edwards was.
“Did I hear you say you want to see Sam Edwards?”
Somewhat startled, and cautious, since the gruff voice had the hair on her arms standing up, Kit turned slowly. The man who’d stepped up beside her was huge and covered from head to toe in animal skins. She swallowed.
“I’m a friend of his,” the burly man said. “Saw him just a few hours ago.”
Kit willed herself not to shiver. People just looked different here from how they did in Chicago, she told herself. At least this one did. “Could you tell me where I might find him?” she asked, flinching at how her voice cracked.
“He headed back to Nevadaville.”
She couldn’t help but glance at the train. Embarking on another ride up the side of that mountain was the last thing she wanted to do. She’d seen how easy it would have been for the entire locomotive to fall over the edge, tumble end over end down into the ravine. Gramps had never mentioned how treacherous the train rides were out here. The journey from Chicago had been fun, but not long after the locomotive had rolled past the fancy homes bordered by tall shade trees, and the rows of manufacturing buildings of Denver—the moment they’d started to chug uphill—the trip had become quite nightmarish, downright nerve-racking. Not right at first. To the west she’d seen Pike’s Peak, boldly crowning the mountain range with regal glory. The sight had left her breathless, but then the train had crossed a bridge. Not a bridge like they’d crossed before, but a bridge. With nothing but emptiness below it. She could still hear the echoing rumble that had bounced off the mountainsides and sent her scrambling away from the window.
The way the train rocked and rolled on the narrow tracks, she’d half wondered if the metal wheels would bounce right off the rails and the whole thing, herself included, barrel down the mountain slopes that fell away on both sides. She’d tried to keep her gaze averted from the scenes outside, but something kept making her sneak peeks at the landscape, which varied from deep gulches to steep inclinations covered in pines and spruces and reaching thousands of feet into the air. Reading the bills advertising a list of shows available at Nevadaville’s newly built opera house—everything from single magicians to full performances of Hamlet—had been a pleasant diversion. A necessary diversion. For each quick glance out the window had left her insides rolling.
“He didn’t take the train.”
The man’s voice pulled her from the memory, and turning, she waited for him to elaborate. Anything would be better than climbing back in that rolling box on wheels.
“He took the trail,” the man said. “He’s headed to the Wanda Lou.”
Excitement zipped up her spine. That was Grandpa’s mine. Now hers and, according to the will, Sam’s.
“The trail?”
He nodded, but it was the gleam that appeared in his narrow eyes under those dark, bushy brows that made her stomach flip. “I could show you,” he said.
Barely able to contain the shivers this time, she shook her head. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” She’d find someone else to assist her, which had her mind going to Clayton Hoffman. Grandpa’s partner or not, there was no way she’d ask for his help. If he discovered who she was, he’d send her back to Chicago immediately.
Kit gave the frightening-looking man a parting nod, and recognizing her luggage being toted across the street by two young boys, hurried to follow them to the hotel. The boys waited as she checked in, and then carried her bags to her room. By the time they left, with coins in hand, she’d come up with her next disguise. A boy traveling the trail to the mine wouldn’t fetch a second glance.
That might have been the longest night of his life. It had left a kink in his back as hard as a boulder. Clay stretched, flinching slightly at the ache, and then blew into the swirl of steam rising from his battered cup. When the coffee entered his mouth, instead of familiar appreciation, sharp, clawlike tendrils of repulsion dug into his shoulders and his throat locked up. Shuddering, he issued a silent curse and spat. Twice.
As another shiver raced over him, hitting every muscle and making him vibrate from head to toe, he tossed the rank coffee out, splattering dew-covered blades of spring grass.
How was that even possible?
Nothing, not even the sulfur-infused air of the gold smelters, stank this bad. Breathing through his mouth, he turned toward the other side of the fire pit, where the source of the eye-watering, nose-burning stench sat.
Head down, with an ugly leather hat hanging almost to his shoulders, the kid sipped his own cup of coffee, quite unaffected by the way his odor had corrupted the brew.
How he did so was unfathomable to Clay. He’d slept with his hat over his face just so he could breathe, and he’d been ten feet or more from the kid, on the other side of a smoldering fire.
Regretting the waste, but unwilling to dare a second taste, Clay picked up the flame-darkened pot sitting beside the fire, dumped out the contents and carried both the cup and pot to the trickling creek forging its way across the rocky ground and around squat trees.
Far enough away to breathe, Clay filled his lungs, and rinsed the utensils in the slow-moving water. Mountaintop-cold, the creek was only a foot wide and barely ten inches deep, but farther along the trail, where the water collected before rolling downhill again, there was a pond.
One that would do quite efficiently.
The thought floundered for a moment, but ultimately, there was no other option. Time was awasting, as his old partner used to say. After stuffing the gear in his saddlebag, Clay grabbed the pommel of his saddle and carried everything toward his horse. “Time to move out.”
The kid—Henry, he called himself, though Clay knew when someone was lying—didn’t glance up. He did empty his cup into the dying embers, and then threw a couple handfuls of dirt over the coals before he pulled the hideous hat farther down on his head and stood.
Tightening the saddle cinch, Clay tossed another glance over his shoulder, to where the skinny kid, shoulders drooped beneath a filthy black-and-red-plaid shirt that should have been turned into a rag months ago, stood staring at the snuffed-out fire. The ride wouldn’t be pleasant, but the pond wasn’t too far, and if Clay held his breath, he might just make it.
Mornings, no matter what season, were chilly in the Rockies. Most months, apart from July and August, you could see your breath before the sun made her way over the snow-capped peaks to brighten and warm the hills and gulches. The pool would be cold, icy even, but there was no way he could tolerate that stench all the way to Black Hawk.
Sticking a foot in the stirrup, Clay hoisted himself into the saddle and then held out a hand. “Come on, Henry, climb up.”
Arms folded across his chest and head down, the boy gave a negative shake. “I’m thinking I’ll walk.”
“Walk?”
Henry nodded, at least the hat did. Actually, Clay had yet to see the kid’s face, other than a dirt-encrusted chin and neck. He’d found “Henry” last evening, crouched beneath a half-dead ponderosa pine.
It had been obvious someone was following him yesterday, but figuring it was the trapper who’d been asking after Sam, Clay had continued on. Eventually, he had caught up with Sam, who’d informed him the trapper was an old family friend. Clay had told Sam he’d be out to the mine in a day or so, and had doubled back, expecting to come across the trapper and ask him a few questions. Instead he’d found Henry.
Clay shook his head at his own luck lately. Now he had another task, taking the foul-smelling Henry to Clarice. He’d decided that last night, even before persuading the kid to share a pan of beans and the warmth of a fire.
Henry appeared to be at that tough age—thirteen, fourteen maybe, but no older. His voice still had that squeaky pitch that didn’t go away until age fifteen or so. Younger kids, ten and below, were easy to convince how nice Clarice’s society house would be to live in, but older ones often disputed it.
Orphans were a commodity mining towns produced, whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, and Clarice, with a heart bigger than Gregory Gulch, had set her mind to taking care of those ill-gotten children. Every last one of them.
Clay looked around at the trees growing out of the mountainside, at the gleaming snow still clinging to the peaks as if warding off the changing season, at the pastel-blue sky dotted with white balls of fluff—anywhere but at the kid. He could let Henry be, and head back to Nevadaville, where an assortment of other duties waited. But he’d never forgive himself if he left a kid out here. A conscience was a hell of a thing sometimes.
“Well,” he said offhandedly. “I guess that’s your choice.”
The hat nodded.
“You got any grub?” Clay knew the boy didn’t, but wanted him to admit it, let the knowledge solidify in his stubborn little head.
“I—”
The shrillness of the squeaky voice could have sent the birds out of the trees.
It must have bothered Henry, too, because he cleared his throat and, with imitation gruffness, said, “I’ll get by.”
Acting as if he was pondering the day, Clay glanced around again. “That horse I saw last evening, the one I figured was yours, probably didn’t get too far. I could help you catch it this morning. Then you’d at least have your bedroll and such.”
“You—” Henry cleared his throat again. “You will?”
“Sure. Come on, let’s take a gander.” Once more he held out his hand.
The kid hesitated.
Clay gave the boy a moment, letting him think about his options. For all his gruffness, he was scared. The way his shoulders twitched and his feet fidgeted belied his crustiness.
“Suit yourself,” Clay said, when enough time had ticked by. “I don’t have all day.”
The kid shuffled forward, and moments later, after he had stuck a foot in the stirrup, grabbed Clay’s hand and awkwardly swung himself behind the saddle, Clay wished he’d never made the offer. The brief reprieve of being upwind made the stench that much worse.
Breathing into the crook of his arm, and holding his neck muscles tight, lest he start gagging, Clay kneed his mount, heading straight for the pool of water. The horse he’d seen yesterday was back in Black Hawk by now, that was certain, which was where they were headed. Riding double on the mountain trail all the way to Nevadaville would be too dangerous.
Stinking to high heaven or not, by climbing on this horse, Henry had probably saved Clay’s life. If Clarice ever got wind of him coming across a child and not lending aid, she’d kill him. Clay grinned, knowing his sister would do no such thing. But, he acknowledged, she’d sure as heck never let him forget it.
Women were like that, reminding men of blunders, making their lives miserable. He was dually glad he’d sworn off them. Kids, too. His old partner’s will had saddled him with enough youngster worries to last a lifetime, and Clay’s own past mistakes had taught him life’s greatest lesson concerning women. There wasn’t a one in the lot who wouldn’t lie to get what she wanted. The opera house he’d built in Nevadaville was a constant reminder of that.
Even with such heavy thoughts, by the time the pool of sparkling blue came into view, Clay was damned near light-headed. The front of his coat was pulled up over his nose, had been for several miles, but it didn’t help. He could still smell the noxious odor, and his burning lungs desperately needed a breath of fresh air.
“Why we stopping?” Henry asked in that mock rough voice.
“Andrew needs a drink,” Clay answered without breathing.
“Who?”
Leaping to the ground, Clay moved to the front of his mount while sucking air deep into his lungs. “My horse.”
Henry climbed down, in an almost delicate and sissy way. His toes searched for the ground, and he didn’t let go of the saddle until both feet were safely planted. Tugging on the hat brim, as if it wasn’t already as low as it could go, he asked, “Your horse’s name is Andrew?”
“Yep, after Andrew Jackson, the seventh president of the United States.” A man didn’t know how sweet air was until he missed it, and Clay couldn’t seem to get enough. He led the horse closer to the pool, glorying in every deep breath.
“I kno—” Henry cleared his throat again. “I know who Andrew Jackson was.”
“Do you?”
“Y-yes.”
Justification took to wallowing in Clay’s mind. The sun had crested the mountains and was heating the air, but not the water. Even months from now, at the height of summer, it would still be icy cold. It really couldn’t be helped, though. He couldn’t ride for hours without breathing. Walking wouldn’t be any better and would double their travel time. Long ago he’d learned that when something needed to be done, it was best to jump in and get it over with. He’d known Henry for only a short time, but he’d learned a lot about him.
One, he stank, which said he didn’t like baths.
Two, he prickled easily, which meant he’d argue.
Three, he stank.
Clay flinched, thinking about what was to come, but he couldn’t stand here pondering all day. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the back of Andrew, patting the horse’s rump affectionately and trying to look casual.
Henry sidestepped, as if suspicious.
Clay shot out an arm, catching the kid by the collar.
“Hey! Let go!”
“I will in about three steps,” Clay assured him, grabbing the waistband of his britches with his other hand.
“Put me down!”
As promised, three steps later Clay let go, pitching the boy into the pond.
“You—” The resulting splash stifled Henry’s high-pitched protest.
Folding his arms, Clay watched the water swell up to engulf the youngster, hat and all. Henry would be mad enough to spit bullets when he surfaced, but at least he’d smell better.
Clay grimaced, feeling more than a little sorry for the boy. That water had to be bone-chillingly cold. Maybe he should have offered a deal—a bath for a ride to Black Hawk. Concern tugged at his conscience as the ripples slowly faded, but when the pond turned smooth and glassy, his heart slammed into his throat.
“Aw, shit!”
He didn’t bother to remove anything, just ran. When the water hit his thighs, he dived toward the exact spot where he’d pitched Henry.
Pin prickles of cold stung his eyes as he searched the murky depth. Catching a flutter, he reached out. His fingers snagged material and he tugged. Heading upward, he towed the kid, adrenaline pounding through Clay’s veins with every stroke of his arm and kick of his feet. His head broke the surface and he tugged harder, thrusting the kid above the waterline. The first thing he heard was spitting and sputtering.
Clay’s heart fluttered with thankfulness, and gasping for air himself, he shouted, “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t swim?” Holding Henry by the waist with one hand, he used the other arm to tread water, orientating himself by searching for the bank where Andrew stood.
“Why’d you try to drown me?” Henry shouted between sputters.
Clay kept one arm around the kid and used steady strokes with the other to pull them through the water. “I didn’t try to drown you.” They neared the shore and he lowered his legs. The slick soles of his boots slipped on the rocky bottom several times before he found solid footing. “I was giving you a bath.”
“A bath!” The kid’s squeaky voice sounded downright self-righteous.
Clay bent to pluck his hat out of the water, having lost it when he dived in. A thought occurred to him and he twisted, ready to get his first good look at Henry. Dumbfounded, he stared. The shabby hat, now black instead of dirt brown, with water dripping off the floppy brim, was still on the kid’s head.
As if he knew what Clay was thinking, Henry grabbed the brim with both hands and held on tight. The kid spun, an action that made it appear he was about to shoot back beneath the water. Clay caught the tail of the well-worn shirt and started walking toward the grass-lined bank.
Squirming and digging his heels into the creek bed, Henry fought him every step. Clay, shivering from the icy water and damn near steaming at the same time, gave a hard wrench to pull the kid out of the water.
A rip sounded and the cloth went slack.
“Aw, shit,” Clay mumbled. He hadn’t meant to tear the shirt off the boy’s back any more than he’d meant to drown him. His patience, though, was running thin. He spun and this time caught Henry around the waist. Hooking him next to his hip, Clay carried the kicking and squirming kid out of the water before they both ended up with pneumonia.
Andrew snorted and, with haughty horse eyes, looked at Clay as if he’d lost his mind. At that moment, he could have agreed with the animal. One-handed—not trusting the kid to stay put—he untied his bedroll.
“Here.” He lowered Henry so his feet touched the ground, and offered him a blanket at the same time.
The kid took a step back, head down and arms folded across his chest.
Clay flipped open the blanket, intending to drape it over the scrawny shoulders, but the boy took another step back and spun around. His shirt had ripped from hem to collar, straight up the back. The wet, frayed ends were stuck to wide strips of cloth wrapped around his torso.
A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature or his dripping clothes shivered up Clay’s spine. Along with it came a horrendous bout of ire. “Henry,” he asked, barely able to keep a growl out of his voice, “who beat you?”
“No one,” the kid answered gruffly.
Clay shook his head, disgusted with himself. The poor kid probably stank like he had due to a salve or poultice on his injuries. Why hadn’t he asked, instead of tossing the boy into the pond? He took a step closer. “I see the bandages, Henry.”
Der kostenlose Auszug ist beendet.
