Dark Horse--A Mystery in the Heart of Montana by B.J. Daniels

Author:B.J. Daniels
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Nikki closed the pool house door behind her, shaken by whatever that had been in the barn. She told herself it was a reaction to Cull. Every run-in with him left her off-kilter. He was angry and afraid—she could understand that. But kissing her? That had scared him more than it had her.

At least that’s what she thought. He wanted her gone. Well, it couldn’t be soon enough for Nikki, she thought, surprised she felt that way. She wasn’t safe here from herself. She didn’t scare easily, but Cull was right. There was something on the wind that turned her blood to ice.

Not that she could leave before she was done. Which reminded her that she needed to take advantage of whatever time she had here. She glanced through the window toward the house. Earlier she’d heard just enough of what Patricia had been saying to the cook this morning, to make her anxious to talk to Frieda.

At the main house, Nikki entered the kitchen to find Frieda Holmes sitting in a chair in the corner. The cook had a threaded needle in her hand and a quilt lay over her lap. Nikki had seen her elderly neighbor sew on a quilt binding enough times that she knew at once what the woman was doing.

“What a beautiful quilt,” she said. “Did you sew it yourself?”

Frieda nodded almost shyly. She was a small, almost homely woman with dark hair shot with gray. She was in her early sixties, by Nikki’s calculations, and had been the cook for years.That was back before they could afford a full-time nanny. Back before the twins.

Nikki moved closer. “I love the colors, and your quilting is amazing. My goodness, it’s all done by hand.” This surprised her, since her neighbor quilted with a sewing machine and only hand sewed the binding.

“It relaxes me,” Frieda said proudly as she ran a hand over the tiny, closely spaced stitches.

At the sound of footfalls behind her, Nikki turned as Patricia came into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Frieda stuck her finger with the needle as she hurriedly tried to put the quilt away. She tucked the needle in the fabric and shoved the quilt into a bag next to the chair. She wiped the blood from her stuck finger on a corner of her apron and rushed to her feet.

“I was waiting on the pies in the oven,” the cook said as if feeling guilty for getting off her feet for even a break.

“And I was just admiring Frieda’s quilt,” Nikki said.

Patricia dismissed that with a flip of her hand. “I’ve never understood why anyone would want to cut up perfectly good fabric and then sew it back together. It makes no sense.”

“It makes beautiful quilts,” Nikki said, seeing how Patricia’s remark had hurt Frieda’s feelings. “My neighbor quilts. Unfortunately, I’ve never taken the time to learn.”

“Well, if you like quilts that much, you should drive out to Old Town and visit the Whitehorse Sewing Circle.

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