Cord’s thoughts frequently drifted to the blonde beauty in the cellar.
She deserved her prison, he reminded himself over and over. She deserved that and worse for her part in the robbery. His father wouldn’t go half as easy on her when he returned and found out what had happened.
Father . . . Cord’s musings suddenly took another, even more unpleasant path.
The uneasy truce between them had stretched thin in the past month. Increasingly critical of everything Cord did, Edmund Wainwright seemed oblivious to how close his son was to his breaking point. And the robbery could well be the last straw. Justified anger or not, if his father made one more disparaging remark . . .
Cord rose from his desk and strode from the library. It didn’t matter how hard he tried! Every time the thought of Sarah Caldwell entered his mind, he ended up angry.
Well, he’d had all he could take. Something had to be done about her. He needed his money back—and fast! Today, one way or another, he’d show her who was boss.
Sarah paced the small cellar, the tension of being cooped up for the past three days rubbing her finely strung nerves raw. I have to get out of here. I just have to!
The overlarge pants kept flapping in time to the jerky beat of her steps. Pausing, she fretfully shoved the sleeves of her shirt back above her elbows for the hundredth time, ruing the stiff-necked pride that had made her return the simple dress of Emma’s once her own clothes had been clean again. The baggy outfit was just one more irritant in the endless hours that plodded by.
Her rapid strides once more carried her past the shelves neatly lined against the walls, filled with jars of jams and jellies with their screw-on caps, stoneware crocks of pickles, sauerkraut, and pickled beets, and preserving jars of stewed fruits sealed with wax and covered with cheesecloth. She halted, her nose wrinkling at the layers of dust that coated everything, not to mention the spiderwebs that festooned portions of the ceiling and upper shelves. Emma was busy, and Sarah felt a need to repay her for the kindness the older woman had shown her in the past days. She might as well dust and straighten up a bit. There certainly wasn’t anything else to do.
If there was one thing she had always been known for, it was keeping a spotless house, Sarah mused as she found some rags and began to dust the shelves and various containers. True, their simple cabin high in a rarely traveled canyon that pierced the mountains several miles from Ashton wasn’t much to speak of. The main floor consisted of a stone hearth and a combined kitchen and living area in one room, and Papa’s bedroom in the other. A sleeping loft reached by a ladder, with a portion sectioned off for her privacy by hanging blankets, was shared by Sarah and her three brothers. The furnishings were sparse—only threadbare, flour-sack curtains hung at the few windows, and the floors were of unvarnished pine. They had no well or fancy indoor plumbing, and had to haul water from a nearby stream.
Still, for as far back as Sarah could recall, no one had ever gone hungry or lacked for warmth in the winter. And, at least when Mama was still alive, there’d been laughter and fun times, not to mention clean if oft-mended clothes and tasty if simple meals. Sarah had done her best to keep up the clean clothes and tasty meals, but since her mother died the laughter and fun times had come few and far between. Not that it wasn’t for lack of trying. Nevertheless, at her mother’s passing, it was as if the last shred of hope and life had drained from her father.
Fiercely, she shook her head to dispel the sad memories, forcing her concentration back to the task at hand. It didn’t take long before Sarah had everything neat and tidy, and an hour passed with relative speed. Eventually, though, she found herself faced with the same problem. Boredom—ponderous, mindless boredom!
With a sigh, Sarah pulled over the
She deserved her prison, he reminded himself over and over. She deserved that and worse for her part in the robbery. His father wouldn’t go half as easy on her when he returned and found out what had happened.
Father . . . Cord’s musings suddenly took another, even more unpleasant path.
The uneasy truce between them had stretched thin in the past month. Increasingly critical of everything Cord did, Edmund Wainwright seemed oblivious to how close his son was to his breaking point. And the robbery could well be the last straw. Justified anger or not, if his father made one more disparaging remark . . .
Cord rose from his desk and strode from the library. It didn’t matter how hard he tried! Every time the thought of Sarah Caldwell entered his mind, he ended up angry.
Well, he’d had all he could take. Something had to be done about her. He needed his money back—and fast! Today, one way or another, he’d show her who was boss.
Sarah paced the small cellar, the tension of being cooped up for the past three days rubbing her finely strung nerves raw. I have to get out of here. I just have to!
The overlarge pants kept flapping in time to the jerky beat of her steps. Pausing, she fretfully shoved the sleeves of her shirt back above her elbows for the hundredth time, ruing the stiff-necked pride that had made her return the simple dress of Emma’s once her own clothes had been clean again. The baggy outfit was just one more irritant in the endless hours that plodded by.
Her rapid strides once more carried her past the shelves neatly lined against the walls, filled with jars of jams and jellies with their screw-on caps, stoneware crocks of pickles, sauerkraut, and pickled beets, and preserving jars of stewed fruits sealed with wax and covered with cheesecloth. She halted, her nose wrinkling at the layers of dust that coated everything, not to mention the spiderwebs that festooned portions of the ceiling and upper shelves. Emma was busy, and Sarah felt a need to repay her for the kindness the older woman had shown her in the past days. She might as well dust and straighten up a bit. There certainly wasn’t anything else to do.
If there was one thing she had always been known for, it was keeping a spotless house, Sarah mused as she found some rags and began to dust the shelves and various containers. True, their simple cabin high in a rarely traveled canyon that pierced the mountains several miles from Ashton wasn’t much to speak of. The main floor consisted of a stone hearth and a combined kitchen and living area in one room, and Papa’s bedroom in the other. A sleeping loft reached by a ladder, with a portion sectioned off for her privacy by hanging blankets, was shared by Sarah and her three brothers. The furnishings were sparse—only threadbare, flour-sack curtains hung at the few windows, and the floors were of unvarnished pine. They had no well or fancy indoor plumbing, and had to haul water from a nearby stream.
Still, for as far back as Sarah could recall, no one had ever gone hungry or lacked for warmth in the winter. And, at least when Mama was still alive, there’d been laughter and fun times, not to mention clean if oft-mended clothes and tasty if simple meals. Sarah had done her best to keep up the clean clothes and tasty meals, but since her mother died the laughter and fun times had come few and far between. Not that it wasn’t for lack of trying. Nevertheless, at her mother’s passing, it was as if the last shred of hope and life had drained from her father.
Fiercely, she shook her head to dispel the sad memories, forcing her concentration back to the task at hand. It didn’t take long before Sarah had everything neat and tidy, and an hour passed with relative speed. Eventually, though, she found herself faced with the same problem. Boredom—ponderous, mindless boredom!
With a sigh, Sarah pulled over the
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