The Wedding Arbor by Valerie Hansen

Author:Valerie Hansen [Valerie Hansen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459257917
Publisher: Harlequin

Chapter Nine

Sara gasped. Her first instinct was to scream. Fortunately, before she gave vent to her fright, her brain registered the fact that the print was small, about the size one of her students might have made if he’d been barefoot.

She bent down to get a better look at the faint tracks. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow move inside the barn. Pretending to be unaware she wasn’t alone, she tugged the wooden door open farther, then stepped through.

The place smelled musty. Dust motes danced and twinkled in the sunbeams shining through the gaps in the high roof. Mice scuttled for cover.

Fond memories tugged at the edges of Sara’s consciousness. There used to be a soft-eyed, brown cow tethered in an end stall for milking twice a day. And there’d also been an old, grey-nosed mule whose broad back she’d climbed onto whenever she got the chance, pretending she was actually astride a beautiful pony.

She smiled. How simple and lovely her childhood had been during that one, perfect summer. And speaking of children…Her eyes fell on a series of miniature tracks leading to the foot of the ladder to the loft.

Made of narrow crosspieces nailed to rough timbers for uprights, the ladder hadn’t been particularly sturdy in its heyday. By now, it looked anything but safe. Rather than climb it, she decided to call out, “You can come down, now. I’m friendly.”

Sara heard a rustling above her. There was somebody up there all right. Someone small. “I’ll bet you’re about six years old, aren’t you? Maybe seven? It’s really hard to tell from way down here.”

Still, no child appeared. Could she have been mistaken? After all, she wasn’t a native tracker. Maybe the footprints had been made long ago. Except that recent rains would have obliterated the track by the door if that were the case.

She decided to use psychology. Picking up a stick, she began to scratch letters in the dirt floor. “My name is Sara,” she wrote in large, block letters. Then she added, “My great granny Stone lived here.”

Movement in the loft proceeded to the end of the barn. As Sara watched, a small, bare foot showed on the top rung of the ladder. Then another. She held her breath, worried about frightening her diminutive companion.

Sagging jeans came next, followed by a T-shirt that hung almost to his knees, and a mop of reddishbrown hair. The little boy was not unusually thin, she decided. It was his oversize clothes which made him seem frail. She smiled broadly as he peered at her over his shoulder and cautiously worked his way down to ground level.

Sara greeted him with a cordial, “Hi.”

The child nodded shyly.

“What’s your name?”

“Bobby Joe.” He spoke so quietly she could barely hear him.

“I’m Sara,” she said. “But I guess you already know that, huh?”

“No, ma’am.”

She stepped back and pointed to the floor. “I mean, I wrote it for you. Here. I thought you could see it from where you were hiding.

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