Bride On The Run (Historical Romance) by Elizabeth Lane Page B

seeping into her fragile kidskin boots. The swollen river had spread into the willows here, rousing myriads of small creatures that squeaked and splashed in the darkness. To her left, the massive trunk of a dead tree, its roots likely drowned in some long-ago flood, rose against the sky like a gnarled and twisted hand. She would have remembered such a treeif she’d come this way before. Clearly, she had stumbled onto the wrong path.
    As she turned to go back the other way, she heard, on the wind, the now familiar call of a coyote. Faint though it was, the sheer lonesomeness of it prickled the skin on the back of her neck. It was only an animal sound, she knew, but that long, haunting wail seemed to contain all the sorrows of the world. It seemed to rise from the very depths of her own battered, frightened heart.
    She listened, her throat tightening as the sound faded away. Then, lifting the sodden remnant of her skirt, she began trudging back along the path. The smell of coffee drifted to her nostrils on the night wind. Giddy with relief, Anna sucked the rich aroma into her senses. Yes, this was the way back. Minutes from now she would be sitting in the warm, cluttered kitchen, holding a hot mug and laughing at her own foolishness.
    And yes, by heaven, she would survive this experience. As soon as the road was open she would be gone. She would put this place and this great, brooding hulk of a man behind her and she would never look back. California lay ahead of her with its glittering promise of fame, fortune and freedom. All that and more—maybe even happiness.
    She squared her shoulders and began to sing.
    “Love, oh, love, oh careless love. Love, oh—”
    The song died in her throat as a shaggy, wolf-like form parted the willows ahead of her and glided into the open.
    What was it?
    Panic rose in Anna’s throat as the creature lowered its head and padded toward her, snarling as it came.She forced her leaden limbs to move, to turn her body and propel it back along the path to her only known chance of safety—the tree.
    She ran, gasping with terror and effort, her boots splashing water, her arms stretching, her muscles tensing for one last, desperate leap.
    As Joshua’s footsteps faded into the night, Malachi sagged against the workbench. His stomach felt knotted and his knees were as wobbly as a newborn calf’s. The conversation with his son had undone him in a way that he could never have imagined. What business did Sam Johnson and his tobacco-chewing teenage son have, putting such ideas into the head of an innocent boy like Joshua? Josh was only eight, barely out of diapers, or so it seemed. What had happened to the years? Where had they gone?
    With an impatient sigh, he jammed the cap onto the tin of Hoskins’ Salve and began gathering up the bloodstained rags he’d used to clean Lucifer’s wound. The mule’s wet coat steamed in the darkness, filling the barn with the odors of blood and animal heat. A bead of sweat broke and trickled down the hollow of Malachi’s neck. He could smell his own sweat, rank beneath his filthy clothes.
    Hellfire, had he really meant what he’d told Josh about sleeping with a woman? Or had his words been nothing but self-righteous, hypocritical drivel? Back there on the trail, when he’d held Anna in his arms and felt his flesh rise and harden against her, he’d wanted nothing more than to take her then and there, to fling her on her back, part her thighs and bury himself to the hilt in the moist satin depths of her. Even now, as he thought of her, Malachi felt his bodyrespond, making lies of all his high-sounding words. Even now he wanted her—wanted those slim, pale legs wrapping around his hips while he drowned himself in her sweet hot honey with no thought of promises, tomorrows or honorable intentions.
    He would not do it, of course. He was seeking a mother for his children, not a fast, easy roll in the hay. And any entanglement with Anna, or whatever her real name was,