Lauri Robinson - Inheriting a Bride

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.

She wondered why he’d emphasized her name so. The way he said it made her heart skip a beat. Kind of like when she’d thought of him calling on Saturday nights. No one had ever called upon her any night of the week, so where on earth had that thought come from? Pondering, she let her gaze wander along the same skyline as his.

It was a picturesque sight, the mountainside decorated with newly leafed trees and patches of bold green grass, along with pines and spruces, unfathomably dense, that grew in the most unexpected places. Even during the train ride, which had had her stomach flipping and her temples pounding, she’d been in awe at the beauty of the Rockies. Gramps had told her about it, but up close, the wild and raw grandeur was astounding. Romantic, even.

“So,” Clay said, interrupting her ponderings, “why the getup?”

She swallowed and licked the salt from the jerky off her lips. “The getup?”

His eyes roamed from the hole in the tip of one boot to the plaid shirt hanging loosely about her shoulders.

“I figured a boy riding in the hills wouldn’t gain much more than a second glance,” she said.

They were silent for a while, other than the crunch of teeth sinking into the apples, which were surprisingly sweet and crisp considering they must have been bouncing around in his saddlebags. When he’d pitched his apple core toward Andrew, and the horse had snatched it up quickly, Clay asked, “And the bandages?”

Kit felt the heat rise on her cheeks, but didn’t bow her head or look away. “I told you, they aren’t bandages.”

“Then what are they?”

The sting of embarrassment grew. “If you must know …”

He waited patiently as she finished her apple and tossed the leftovers to the expectant-looking Andrew. Feeling more than a touch flustered, but knowing he wouldn’t let up until she answered, she said, “I couldn’t wear my …” she lowered her voice “… normal garments beneath the disguise, so I wrapped myself.” She’d read about that in a book, and it had worked remarkably well.

“Wrapped yourself?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

If it wouldn’t be excruciating, she’d have bounded to her feet. Instead she tried to explain her reason vaguely. “The disguise would not have worked as well if I hadn’t.”

The humor glittering in his eyes made a new bout of something akin to anger sweep up her spine.

“I suspect it wouldn’t have,” he said, stopping his knowing gaze on her torso.

The way her breasts tingled had her shooting to her feet. Flinching and catching her breath at the sharp pains and dull throbs that resulted, she couldn’t stop from grasping her backside with one hand. Gritting her teeth, she prayed for the burning sensation to ease.

“Here.”

Not realizing she’d closed her eyes, Kit was surprised to see him standing beside her, holding out a small tin. “What’s that?”

“Salve.”

“For what?”

He glanced around as if assuring their privacy, and then leaned closer to whisper, “For the saddle sore on your rump.”

“My r—” She swallowed the rest of the word, aghast.

“Yes, your rump.” Though he looked as if he was about to burst out laughing, he didn’t. “Saddle sores are a common ailment, and nothing to be embarrassed about.” His expression turned serious. “They’re also nothing to mess with. Especially once the boil forms.”

The intense heat of mortification covered her face. “I do not have a boil,” she insisted.

“Maybe not yet, but you will by the time we get to Black Hawk if you don’t take care of it.” He took her hand and laid the tin in her palm. “Go behind the trees and rub some on.”

Right now, she was willing to try most anything. The pain had become unbearable. “Will it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She snapped her head up. The laughter was gone from his eyes. Sincerity and honesty shone there instead. A large lump formed in her throat. “Yes?”

He nodded. “At first it’s going to sting like h—really sting, but within a few minutes it’ll ease up and soon the spot will be numb. You won’t feel a thing the rest of the way to town. At which point you’ll want to have Doc look at it. He may need to lance it.”

Her insides shook. “Lance it?”

Again there was nothing but truthfulness in Clay’s gaze. That and compassion. “Go on,” he insisted, turning her about by grasping her shoulders. “Andrew and I will wait here.”

Kit wished she had an alternative. Well, she did, but the thought of a boil wasn’t much of a choice, and she honestly didn’t think she could climb back on Andrew the way her backside stung—as if she’d backed up against a cook-stove. “You won’t peek?”

Clay fought the urge to laugh. It wasn’t funny. Her backside had to be stinging as if she’d sat on a hornets’ nest. He doubted there was a person alive who hadn’t ended up with a saddle sore at one point in his or her life. Including him. But she looked so darn cute. “No,” he assured her. “Neither Andrew nor I will peek.” The flicker of annoyance dancing in her coffee-colored eyes had a grin tickling the edges of his lips. He winked. “Yell if you need help, though.”

The chuckle that her glare ensued died as Clay watched her gingerly pick a path behind the trees. She was in serious pain. He walked to Andrew, keeping his eyes focused on the scrap of snow clinging to the farthest mountain peak. “The balm will help,” he told the horse, fighting the urge to turn about and see if anything was visible between the aspens behind which Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, had taken refuge.

Clay tossed his head with a touch of frustration. He really had to stop calling her that. She gave him one of her little looks every time it rolled off his tongue. Maybe that’s why he did it. He certainly didn’t like her. She was as annoying as bedbugs.

A tiny screech had him spinning about. “Are you all right?” he called.

“Yes,” she answered, sounding somewhat winded with pain.

“Give it a minute,” he shouted. “It’ll ease.”

“It’d better!”

Smiling, he reached down to tighten the saddle cinch strap he’d loosened when they stopped to eat. She had grit, he had to give her that. All in all, she was quite remarkable. Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts. Once again, he chided himself. “Katherine” just didn’t fit her. It seemed too formal for someone so youthful and charming. Maybe she went by Kathy.

Leading Andrew to the blankets, he proceeded to fold them into a neat pad for Kathy to sit on. Nope. Kathy didn’t fit her, either. He turned toward the woods, where she was tenderly stepping from between the trees. Now dry, her hair had turned straw colored and hung in spirals around her shoulders, while the ends bounced near her elbows.

It was all he could do to stop staring. Spinning around, he laid the bedroll behind the saddle. As soon as he got Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, back to Black Hawk, he’d see she got on the next train heading east, and he’d never think about her again.

“Thank you.” She handed him the tin. “You were right. It stung like the dickens at first, but now I can’t feel a thing.” Her eyes twinkled as brightly as specks of gold in a creek bed as she leaned a bit closer and whispered, “I can’t thank you enough for that.”

His throat thickened, and for a moment Clay thought about something he hadn’t contemplated in years: kissing. Her lips seemed to have been made just for that purpose.

He managed to mumble, “You’re welcome,” as he took the tin and stuck it back in the saddlebag.

Once he’d climbed into the saddle, he held one stirrup on top of his boot for her to use as he took her hand. After she’d settled onto the blankets, he asked, “You set?”

She grasped the saddle with both hands near his hips before answering, “Yes, thank you.”

He clicked his tongue, setting Andrew moving, and held his breath at the way his skin near her hands tingled. He’d have been better off riding all the way back to Black Hawk smelling the foul kid Henry. “What was in that pouch, anyway?”

The tinkle of her soft giggle tickled his neck. “A dead fish.”

“Really?”

“Well, parts of one, anyway. I’d stuck it in there.”

“Why?”

“In case someone caught me tailing Mr. Edwards. I figured the smell would keep them at bay.”

Clay had almost forgotten that part—that she was looking for Sam. “All this just to meet a miner?”

“I’ve always wanted to meet a miner.”

I’m a miner , Clay had an unusual urge to say, but of course didn’t. He’d asked Sam yesterday if he knew a young woman from Boston, but the boy had had no idea what he was talking about. So Clay had decided there was no reason for the two of them to meet, and all the more reason for him to send her back to Boston as soon as possible.

He glanced heavenward, as if Oscar could see him. Why me? he asked. Why didn’t you leave someone else in charge of your will and your wayward grandson?

Clay was still asking the same question the next evening when he sat across the fire pit from Sam outside a small cave not far from the Wanda Lou, the gold mine owned by the two of them and Oscar’s other grandchild, a young girl named Kit who lived in Chicago. It had started out simple enough. Nine years ago, he and Oscar had agreed to continue the partnership his father, Walt, and Oscar had formed years before. That joint venture had been for the Wanda Lou when she was little more than a hole in the side of Clear Creek Mountain—named for the creek that split to flow both eastward and westward off the mountaintop, and carried specks of gold all the way down on both sides.