Bronwyn Williams - Longshadow's Woman

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

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. Not that she was afraid to be out after dark. Still, she didn’t like the prospect of driving home alone at night with a prisoner. By the time darkness fell she intended to be secure in her own home, with the chickens shut up for the night, the mule fed and watered, and her prisoner, if she managed to rent one, safely locked inside the barn.

Twitching away the flies, Sorry continued to amble along the dusty wagon road. Carrie managed to curb her impatience. At least they were moving. It could be worse. According to Darther, all mules hated all females. Something to do with what he referred to as their half-ass breeding.

If anyone should know about jackasses, it was Darther. Theirs was not a match made in heaven. The first time she had suggested hitching that ugly gelding of his to the plow and clearing the cut-over field, he’d given her a wallop that had landed her on her backside. She had been new to marriage at the time, and hadn’t known what to expect.

Now she did.

From the top of a tall, dead pine, a red-tailed hawk watched her progress. Dust rose in pale drifts behind the cart, overtaking it as a fresh breeze sprang up from the cloudless sky. It hadn’t rained since early July. All that was left of her kitchen garden, of which she had been so proud only a few weeks ago, were a few leathery beans no longer than her little finger, despite all the buckets of water she had toted up from the creek. She’d felt like giving up when the deer and rabbits had got to her cabbages, leaving only two rows of green stalks.

But giving up wasn’t in her, because Carrie had another dream. And this time she had the grit and determination to make it come true. As a child she’d had those same qualities, but back then they’d been called stubbornness, and no one had wanted to adopt a stubborn, headstrong little girl who was neither smart nor pretty, even though she had tried her very best to be quiet and obedient.

One thing had never changed, though. Once she made up her mind to do something, she refused to give up. And Carrie had set her mind on making her husband’s land prosperous again. The first step was to grow herself a cash crop. With the seed money she would get from that, she would clear more land and grow more corn, until not one square foot of dirt was wasted. One field had been cut over by a previous owner years before, but the job had never been finished. The stumps were still there, and now the underbrush had grown back again, but it was conveniently close to the creek. Come spring, once she got it cleared and turned, she could hill it and plant it by herself, and tote water during the dry spells. That was the first part of her dream. She couldn’t allow herself to look farther into the future.