Prairie Fire by Catherine Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

Reaching up, she touched the side of his face and straightened his hat. He kissed her on the cheek before mounting his mule. And then—as if he couldn’t bear the thought of a single minute away from her—he leaned over, took her hand, and kissed her fingers.
    Caitrin watched as Rosie stood on tiptoe to wave good-bye. Seth turned half around in the saddle, letting his mule follow the others across the pontoon bridge. As the men headed off, Rosie hugged herself, hardly able to contain her joy. Then she lifted her skirts, raced across the barnyard, grabbed up Chipper and swung him around and around.
    Caitrin turned away. There was work to be done.

    Jack Cornwall sat on the pickle barrel trying to read the text of The Pilgrim’s Progress by lamplight and wondering if Caitrin Murphy would come. He had heard her in the barn just after noon that day. She and the little girl had opened a big wooden trunk and sorted through dresses, hats, and gloves until Jack thought he was going to climb the walls of the tiny storage room.
    Their chatter about voile, tulle, satin, and silk hadn’t bothered him. He didn’t mind the endless discussion of fringe, ribbon, and lace. And he even held up under the lengthy debate about which kind of sleeves were the most flattering—flared, tiered, puffed, or capped. In fact, he could now declare himself a veritable encyclopedia of ladies’ fashions. As if such knowledge were worth a plugged nickel.
    No, it wasn’t the female babble that had stretched his nerves. It
    No, it wasn’t the female babble that had stretched his nerves. It was Caitrin Murphy’s voice. Musical, it sang in his ears and sent his heartbeat stumbling like a dancer with two left feet. He craved the sound—the roll of the r ’s, the hint of laughter in every word, the lilt that made each sentence she spoke like the verse of a song.
    Risking discovery, Jack had knocked out the center of a knothole and peered out at the two. Caitrin Murphy glowed in the dingy barn like a stained-glass window in a darkened church. Her hair flamed in shades of rust, cinnamon, and copper. Against the conflagration of auburn curls, her skin was as white and pure as snow. And her emerald green dress swished and swayed around her hips until Jack’s head spun.
    The image of the woman had burned in his thoughts all afternoon. Certain his decision to stay at the O’Toole place to recuperate had been wise, he spent the silent hours washing, shaving, and cleaning up. He focused his attention on medicating his shoulder and exercising the stiff joint. During the weeks of pursuing his nephew, Jack had tried to ignore the wound. But now he knew his recovery was crucial. If Bill Hermann found him, he’d need his wits and his strength. And a job in blacksmithing promised the only hope he had of caring for his parents and Lucy in the years to come.
    Moving his arm in circles, he stared at the words on the book in his lap. I would advise thee, then, that thou with all speed get thyself rid of thy burden; for thou wilt never be settled in thy mind till then… .
    Jack slammed the book shut. Thee, then, that, thou? What kind of garbage writing was this supposed to be? The only wilt he knew anything about was a piece of soggy lettuce—and it never settled anybody’s mind or stomach either.
    He glowered at the book’s green cover. Where was Caitrin? Was she going to leave him out here to starve? He glanced at the shelves stacked high with jars of apple jelly, beef and venison jerky, and dried apricots. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t starve. But didn’t she want to see him? Wasn’t she even curious about whether he’d left yet?
    He was curious about Caitrin Murphy. So curious his brain fairly itched. What had brought a woman with so much life in her all the way from Ireland to the barren Kansas prairie? What spurred the ambition that drove her to tend a mercantile day after day? Where had she come up with the notion that God considered any man precious? The