She could actually hear the quiet sound of his breathing
as they watched the mare nuzzle her baby.
Jonah was obviously exhausted. Light from the lantern emphasized lines of weariness in his face, cast shadows into the hollows beneath his high cheekbones.
What was it, Carrie wondered, that made this man, with his dark skin and his black hair, look more magnificent than the yellow-haired heroes in all the storybooks?
Unconsciously she moved her hand closer to his. And then suddenly she leaned forward. “Oh, look—Jonah, it’s trying to get up!”
“Watch.” Jonah didn’t move a muscle. His voice remained unemotional, as if he had not just participated in a miracle.
Inside the stall, Carrie watched the long-legged creature stand shakily and begin nudging his mother’s belly. “Oh, my,” she whispered. Jonah’s hand closed over hers, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world….
Praise for Bronwyn Williams’s previous books
Beholden
“…as welcome as a cool breeze on a scorching day.
I can’t resist a fast-paced, well-written story.”
—Rendezvous
Entwined
“Her intricately woven story is deftly done,
and her depiction of her hero and heroine is masterful.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Seaspell
“A terrific read. I loved it!”
—Author Pamela Morsi
Longshadow’s Woman
Harlequin Historical #553
#551 THE HIGHLAND WIFE
Lyn Stone
#552 ANNE’S PERFECT HUSBAND
Gayle Wilson
#554 LILY GETS HER MAN
Charlene Sands
Longshadow’s Woman
Bronwyn Williams
Available from Harlequin Historicals and BRONWYN WILLIAMS
White Witch #3
Dandelion #23
Stormwalker #47
Gideon’s Fall #67
The Mariner’s Bride #99
The Paper Marriage #524
Longshadow’s Woman #553
Contents
Chapter One
With a graceful gesture, Carrie resettled her best straw hat, angling the brim against the sun. Sighing, she once more addressed the mule in the only language the beast understood. “Move along there, you lop-eared son of a bitch!”
If there was one thing Sorry hated more than pulling a plow, it was pulling a cart. It had cost Carrie more in time and aggravation than she could afford just to get the wretched old bag of bones hitched up. At this stop-and-go speed they wouldn’t make it to the jailhouse until tomorrow, and she didn’t have a day to waste.
Her husband was going to pitch a fit if he got home and saw the damage Sorry had done to Peck’s paddock gate before she had time to mend it. Nothing was too good for that ugly gelding of his. His own private paddock, a fancy new stall, the very best oats, not to mention fresh water that had to be hauled all the way up from the creek daily, and Darther wasn’t one to do the hauling himself. That’s what he had her for, as he delighted in reminding her.
As for Carrie, the mule and the chickens, they could starve as long as that damned racehorse of his didn’t suffer the least discomfort.
Blessed horse. She was going to have to shed the habit of swearing. Emma said it wasn’t ladylike, but it was hard not to fall into bad habits when every other word out of her husband’s mouth was foul. Nor had her uncle been any better. Carrie had a vague memory of a softer voice with a far different accent, but it was wedged so far back in her mind that sometimes she thought she must have dreamed it.
“Step it up, Sorry, we’re never going to get there at this rate,” she pleaded.
But pleading didn’t work. Reasoning didn’t work. The damn-blasted mule just stood there, ignoring the heat, the flies—ignoring Carrie. The only thing that got through his thick skull was the language he was used to hearing from Darther.
“Listen here, you wall-eyed bastard, either you start walking or I’m going to carve your dumb ass into a thousand pieces and feed every scrap to the crows!” Bishop Whittle would be scandalized if he could hear her now.
Sighing, she slapped the reins across the mule’s thick, dusty hide, causing him to lurch into motion. Her feet flew up, the straw hat slipped over her face again and she nearly lost her grip on the reins. “That’s better,” she grumbled, shoving her hat back on her sweating head.
Within minutes they had settled back to a torpid stroll. Where Sorry was concerned, locomotion came in fits and jerks, or not at all. “Come on, sweetheart,” she cajoled, “we have a long way to go, and the slower you move, the longer it’ll be before you can get shed of this old cart. I’ll give you a turnip if we make it back before dark.”
Which would never happen at the rate they were going.