Bride of the Wolf by Susan Krinard Read Free Book Online

have no compunction about lying to her if he had already tried to buy her off.
    When he had said “So you’re Jed’s wife?” in such a sneering voice, she’d been almost certain that he meant to accuse her of deception. She had, after all, answered to Rachel Lyndon when the wagon driver had approached her in Javelina. Perhaps he hadn’t persisted in his challenge because he feared being exposed himself.
    You are no less a liar just because he’s a liar, too , she told herself. But she had lied only because she had needed a reason for coming to Dog Creek after she’d learned that Jedediah was away. If her worst, most irrational fears were realized and he no longer wanted her, she would compel him to tell her so to her face. Unless and until that happened, turning back, even staying in Javelina, was not an acceptable option.
    And if Jedediah had simply been detained on business, as Sean had said, he would surely understand her reasons for claiming a privilege she did not yet possess.
    Rachel opened the door to the house, easing the infant into the crook of her arm as she pushed. She had no reason to disbelieve anything Sean had said; his interest in her seemed strictly and benevolently impersonal, and he had accurately predicted Renshaw’s reaction. If not for the baby, she would have deemed Holden Renshaw a thoroughgoing and unredeemable villain.
    Yet when he’d held the child out to her and demanded that she help in that rough, deep voice, she’dbeen struck dumb as a lamppost. What sort of villain would bring a foundling home with him and express such concern about its well-being?
    Glancing around the rustic parlor immediately inside the door, she saw that the chairs, like the table they surrounded, were handmade, simple and roughhewn. She went to the nearest and sat, gently unwrapping the infant as soon as she was settled. Its skin was gray, its face far too thin.
    It could not have been more than two months old. She cooed to it, waiting for it to open its eyes. Afraid, though she could see it breathing, that it might die in her arms.
    A precious life. Small and fragile in body, just as she felt in her soul.
    She lifted the baby so that its downy head rested against her cheek. A curled fist flailed, bumping her mouth. Alive. Wanting to live. Giving her the courage she so sadly lacked.
    Whoever you may be, she told it silently, wherever you have come from, I am here to protect you .
    Blue eyes opened. All babies had blue eyes at first, but this child’s were startling, as bright and intent as if they could focus on hers.
    “Yes,” she murmured. “I see you.”
    The baby—a boy, she saw, checking under his diaper—gave a gusty little sigh as if he understood. Nursery rhymes crowded into her head, pushing away her fear.
    Once, she had sung such songs to the baby within her, certain he could hear her long before he was born. She had felt him move, kicking and punching as if to declare his coming independence.
    Little Timothy had lived so short a time. Only long enough for her to sing a few verses of the song she loved most.
    Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
    Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird…
    The door opened, and Renshaw walked in with a pail in one hand and saddlebags over his shoulder. He set down the pail and moved past her to lay the saddlebags over a chair. In the pail, the milk steamed, fresh and pungent.
    Rachel found her composure again and hugged the baby as if it needed protection from the very person who had found him. No one, least of all this man, would see her vulnerable.
    “We will need something to feed him with,” she said briskly.
    Without a word, Renshaw rummaged in the saddlebags and produced a bottle and several squares of white cotton fabric.
    “Where did you get the bottle?” she asked.
    “It was left with the kid,” he said. He went to the pail to fill the bottle, but Rachel stopped him with a cry of protest.
    “Your hands must be clean,” she said.
    He glared at her,