Janette Kenny by One Real Cowboy

Author:One Real Cowboy [Cowboy, One Real]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

In the wee hours of the morning, Bea sensed Cord watching her again. She feigned sleep, daring not to move. He touched her hair. Her heart raced and heat stole over her, thinking he’d go further this time. But he didn’t.

Cord lowered his head, his breath fanning her cheek, coming so close to her that she thought he’d kiss her. Hoped he would. That didn’t happen either.

The bed creaked as Cord slipped from it.

She listened to his bare feet slap the floor. The rustle of clothes. Clunk of boots. Jingle of spurs. Then he was gone.

Bea waited several tense minutes before springing from the bed. She tugged off her nightgown as she dashed behind her dressing screen. Heart pounding, she shrugged on chemise, drawers, and petticoat, but shunned the restricting corset to save time.

She donned a blue skirt and blouse and slipped on stockings and boots. A deep-throated whicker drew her to the window.

Bea gasped to see Cord astride Zephyr. Foreboding settled in her stomach like a leaden weight. She had confidence in his abilities as a horseman, but she couldn’t dispel the worry that something horrible would happen this morning.

Rattled to the point of shaking, Bea slipped on a garnet wool jacket. She stuffed her hair under a straw hat adorned with garnet ribbons and raced from the bedroom.

Bea bounded down the rear staircase, working her fingers into her kidskin gloves as she went. She flew out the rear door and rounded the house. As she had instructed him to do, Rory stood in the shadows holding the reins to a saddled Cleopatra.

“Your husband has a goodly distance on you, he does,” Rory said as he gave her a leg up.

“No matter. I’ll catch up.”

Grasping the reins, Bea touched her heel to the mare’s flanks. Cleopatra stretched out into a fluid gallop.

The first blush of dawn cast enough light to distinguish forms. She glimpsed a rider thundering toward the Flying D.

Panic rose within her. She leaned over the mare’s neck and urged her horse to follow. The biting air stung her face and tore at her hat, but she approached the small rise at a reckless pace.

The sense of urgency clung to her like a meddlesome burr. Where was Cord going? And why?

Bea eased her horse to a trot and scanned the shadowy knoll. Silhouetted against the bruised horizon rose the cemetery’s lone monument. Zephyr munched grass near the cemetery, reins trailing the ground, saddle empty.

Bea’s blood ran cold. Tormented with images of Cord lying injured, she kicked Cleopatra into a gallop.

From the shadows hovering within the cemetery rose a man—tall, lean, and imposing. He settled his wide-brimmed hat on his head and turned to her.

Bea couldn’t see his face, but she knew her husband all the same. Giddy with relief, she reined to a stop beside the cemetery gate. Cord was alive and well. But why was he visiting the grave of Mrs. Prescott Donnelly?

That he paid his respects to this woman was a noble gesture. That he chose to do so under the cloak of darkness smacked of dishonesty.

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