Snow Angel_a romantic Christmas novella by Davalynn Spencer

Author:Davalynn Spencer [Spencer, Davalynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wilson Creek Publishing
Published: 2018-10-31T18:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

Helplessness was not in Wil’s vocabulary, but as soon as Doc Carver told him not to get the cast wet, the idea of a good soaking hit like a maverick steer at the end of a short rope.

If he could get in the tub and hang his leg over the edge, everything would work out just fine.

But it was the gettin’ in part that soured the deal, and he dang sure wasn’t going to ask for help.

The best he could do was clean up while sittin’ on a chair next to the tub.

He slicked his hair back, stropped the razor, and lathered his face. He’d shaved often enough on the trail that he didn’t need a mirror. Still, it would have been convenient, but his own razor and glass were in his war bag, and Lord only knew where that was.

His saddlebags hung over the chair back, but first things first.

After as good a bath as possible, a stopper in the bottom invited him to pull it, and the water drained out. Beat bailin’.

Feeling more in control of things than he had since waking up in Carver’s surgery, he rolled everything but the razor and strap into the towel and with a crutch, pushed it over near the wash tub. The idea of Lena washing his clothes made him twitchy, but she’d already done it once. Probably cleaned him up too, and he refused to think too hard on that. He’d been unconscious, so it shouldn’t matter. Except it did.

He hadn’t known her then—how her eyes lit up when that teasing streak took over, or how her voice rippled like music when she laughed. Too many times he’d caught himself day dreaming about what it’d be like to have someone like her on his place when he got one.

If he got one.

He lifted the saddlebags to his lap and unbuckled the near side. Reaching in, he ran his hand along the smooth bottom, feeling for a row of buck stitching along one edge.

Hope snagged on a tight knot at the end. This might be the best Christmas he’d had since he was a kid in Texas, but without his pocket knife, he’d have to wait to find out. He’d sewn the false leather bottom in tight enough to keep what coins he had from jingling. Apparently, it’d fooled the thieves.

An idea sprouted like spring grass, along with an image of Lena Carver walking through that grass. His grass. On his spread. He might be gettin’ ahead of himself, but if his stake was secure, and he really did get the spread he’d saved for, then he’d have something to offer a wife.

Wife.

The word made him shiver and sweat at the same time.

He sat for a minute, pondering the notion. Looking at it straight on and admitting to himself that he’d taken the first step in that direction and done so without help of those blasted, short-legged hobbles.

The next step was figuring out if Lena felt the same. Two weeks wasn’t long, but he’d spent every day of it with her.

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