Spring of My Love by Ginny Aiken

Author:Ginny Aiken [Ginny Aiken]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781585587667
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

11

When Angel took aim and pulled the trigger, Papa’s old shotgun kicked back like an angry mule. Although her injury was to her left shoulder and she’d shot from her right, the effort to hold the heavy weapon steady and then shoot was more than she was ready to endure.

“Looks like Doc Letty does know what she’s about when it comes to doctoring,” she told Sunny, who’d limped along at her side. “She said the blade stabbed right into the bone and that it would take as long to heal as my broken leg.”

Sunny paused, most of her weight on her healthy legs, and shook her head. Then she stretched her neck and responded with well-articulated yowls.

“Now, don’t you join the rest of them and lecture me,” Angel argued back. “I’m the one in charge at Rogers Ranch, and don’t you forget that.”

Indignant yowls followed. Then, when she saw her mistress step toward the cabin, the dog hobbled on. Although it pained Angel to watch Sunny’s labored gait, the dog refused to stay put. She had stayed with her mistress every minute since Wynema had brought her back to Rogers Ranch.

The dog’s love humbled Angel. It also reminded her to turn to the Lord each time she noticed that generous affection. Now, as the sun glinted pure gold off the animal’s silky coat, and her tail, with its long, thick fringe, waved like a plume in the hot, still air, Angel again thanked her heavenly Father for her constant canine companion.

At the cabin, Angel opened the back door to let Sunny go ahead of her, then clumped her way inside. “You know,” she said, “there’s not much I can do around here yet.”

Inactivity didn’t suit her, and complaints to the dog didn’t help one bit. An idea broke through her irritation.

“Very well, Sunny girl. I’ll head to the loft. I know it’s hot, but since I doubt it’ll change for days and days yet, I don’t see a reason to wait for that break. I might not be able to do much else, but I can pedal my loom with one foot and ply the shuttle with my good arm.”

Angel sat on the bottom step of the split-log stairs and made her way up on her rump. When she mastered one step, she took up the gun and moved it to the next. Something told her she’d be wise to take to heart the many warnings she’d received.

She figured the gun might give a scoundrel pause. She wasn’t about to tell anyone she couldn’t shoot worth spit yet, much less that it hurt too much for her to fire at will.

At the top of the stairs, she leaned back against the wall. Her climb had worn her out. But the sight of the large loom and the cream-colored wool blanket she’d started that winter made her smile. She loved the comfort of a weaver’s rhythm, and it gratified her to watch a piece grow yarn by yarn.

It took her a

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