Homespun Bride

Jillian Hart 127Of course. His exciting cowboy life. Impossibly, theemotions tangled up in her throat expanded more, andshe could not speak.“Where do you want your coffee?”“Oh, I can carry it.” She’d never felt so awkward.“I don’t mind. Besides, I filled it awful full.”“The parlor, then.”“Follow me.” His steps struck like thunder in the whirof her mind. Somehow she made her feet carry heraround the table and through the door, which he held forher.“I came in to check the wood boxes,” he told her,talking uneasily. So, he did feel the awkwardnessbetween them. “Is there anything else that needs doing?I might as well make myself useful as long as I’mhere.”Throat aching, heart aching, she could only shakeher head once in response. His boots were a slow andsure rhythm in contrast to her own.She almost forgot to count her steps as she left thecorner of the dining room table to make the long pathto her armchair by the hearth. The familiar cadence ofhis gait, his scent of hay and winter and horses, therustle of his movements and the coziness of hispresence all sweetly affected her, and against her will.“On the table by the chair?” he asked.“Please.” She slipped into her chair.“There’s a Bible on the table, too.” His tone dippedwith tender understanding. “You must miss being ableto read that.”“Very much. The Bible was my mother’s, and it’s acomfort just to have it near.” One of her questions abouthim rose to the surface like a soap bubble. “I remember