hunting expeditions, she had thought the place beautiful withits tall grass and unexpected ponds, its melodious birds and arching blue sky, and its clean, endless vistas.
At the moment, Jessica’s view of the prairie was less charitable. The landscape was in the dying grasp of winter. Mile upon mile upon mile of land lay half-frozen around her. Flat, featureless, treeless, empty of lakes or rivers, inhabited only by the long, low howl of the north wind, the prairie defined desolation; and the sound the wind made was the disbelieving cry of a soul newly damned.
Jessica had heard that sound before in her nightmares. Shuddering, she looked away from the emptiness and knew she had to be out the reach of the wind, if only for a few minutes.
“Wolfe, please.”
“No. It isn’t a fit place for an English lady.”
“I’m Scots,” she said automatically.
Wolfe smiled, but there was no humor in his expression. “I know. Scots or English or even French, that place still isn’t fit for a lady.”
Jessica was very tired of hearing what was and was not fit for a lady, for it seemed those rules always worked against her. On the other hand, losing her temper only caused Wolfe to bait her all the more.
“I’m an American wife,” Jessica said, smiling through her teeth, “not a foreign lady.”
“Then obey your husband. I’ll bring breakfast, if it’s fit to eat. I doubt that it will be. The food here has been passed up by skunks.”
“Nothing can be that bad.”
“This is. If you’re hungry, we’ll eat farther up the line. One of the army wives makes egg money supplying the stage stop with baked goods.”
The wind’s eerie cry raked over Jessica’s nerves.She trembled and looked at Wolfe with an unconscious plea in her blue eyes.
“Wolfe, just this once, just for a few minutes?”
“No.”
Fear and exhaustion shook Jessica. Fiercely, she fought the desire to cry. Her mother’s experience had taught Jessica that tears served no purpose except that of announcing weakness, and weakness was invariably attacked.
“Get back to the stage, your ladyship,” Wolfe said curtly. “I’ll bring you any food that’s fit to eat.”
Jessica’s spine straightened as anger swept through her, driving out fatigue and fear for a few blessed moments. “How kind of you. Tell me, what did you do for entertainment before you had me to torment, pull wings from butterflies?”
“If being an American wife instead of an English lady—”
“ Scots. ”
“—is such a torment,” he continued, ignoring her interruption, “then you have only to say the word and you’ll be free of this rude frontier life.”
“Bastard.”
“Without doubt, but the word I had in mind was annulment.”
The wind moaned with a chill promise of damnation that made nightmares awaken inside Jessica. When the stagecoach was moving, there was at least the endless rattle and clatter of the wheels to dull the voice of the wind. But now the stage was motionless and the traces empty while the horses were switched. Now the stage shifted and shivered beneath the cruel force of the wind.
Jessica knew if she sat in that fragile shell and heard the wind screaming, she would start screaming, too. Yet she didn’t dare show such weakness to Wolfe. If he understood how much she feared the wind, he would use it against her, driving her back to England and a marriage with the likes of Lord Gore.
Then her nightmares would be real, rather than remaining black dreams she never quite remembered upon awakening.
Without a word, Jessica picked up her skirts and walked past Wolfe, who was staring at the weary saddle horses. As he had feared, some of them bore the marks of horses used by the South in the recent war. More than one band of outlaws had begun in the embittered rabble of a lost cause. Some had come from the North as well, men who had gotten a taste for looting and killing that hadn’t gone away when the war ended.
Wish to hell Caleb or Reno was
At the moment, Jessica’s view of the prairie was less charitable. The landscape was in the dying grasp of winter. Mile upon mile upon mile of land lay half-frozen around her. Flat, featureless, treeless, empty of lakes or rivers, inhabited only by the long, low howl of the north wind, the prairie defined desolation; and the sound the wind made was the disbelieving cry of a soul newly damned.
Jessica had heard that sound before in her nightmares. Shuddering, she looked away from the emptiness and knew she had to be out the reach of the wind, if only for a few minutes.
“Wolfe, please.”
“No. It isn’t a fit place for an English lady.”
“I’m Scots,” she said automatically.
Wolfe smiled, but there was no humor in his expression. “I know. Scots or English or even French, that place still isn’t fit for a lady.”
Jessica was very tired of hearing what was and was not fit for a lady, for it seemed those rules always worked against her. On the other hand, losing her temper only caused Wolfe to bait her all the more.
“I’m an American wife,” Jessica said, smiling through her teeth, “not a foreign lady.”
“Then obey your husband. I’ll bring breakfast, if it’s fit to eat. I doubt that it will be. The food here has been passed up by skunks.”
“Nothing can be that bad.”
“This is. If you’re hungry, we’ll eat farther up the line. One of the army wives makes egg money supplying the stage stop with baked goods.”
The wind’s eerie cry raked over Jessica’s nerves.She trembled and looked at Wolfe with an unconscious plea in her blue eyes.
“Wolfe, just this once, just for a few minutes?”
“No.”
Fear and exhaustion shook Jessica. Fiercely, she fought the desire to cry. Her mother’s experience had taught Jessica that tears served no purpose except that of announcing weakness, and weakness was invariably attacked.
“Get back to the stage, your ladyship,” Wolfe said curtly. “I’ll bring you any food that’s fit to eat.”
Jessica’s spine straightened as anger swept through her, driving out fatigue and fear for a few blessed moments. “How kind of you. Tell me, what did you do for entertainment before you had me to torment, pull wings from butterflies?”
“If being an American wife instead of an English lady—”
“ Scots. ”
“—is such a torment,” he continued, ignoring her interruption, “then you have only to say the word and you’ll be free of this rude frontier life.”
“Bastard.”
“Without doubt, but the word I had in mind was annulment.”
The wind moaned with a chill promise of damnation that made nightmares awaken inside Jessica. When the stagecoach was moving, there was at least the endless rattle and clatter of the wheels to dull the voice of the wind. But now the stage was motionless and the traces empty while the horses were switched. Now the stage shifted and shivered beneath the cruel force of the wind.
Jessica knew if she sat in that fragile shell and heard the wind screaming, she would start screaming, too. Yet she didn’t dare show such weakness to Wolfe. If he understood how much she feared the wind, he would use it against her, driving her back to England and a marriage with the likes of Lord Gore.
Then her nightmares would be real, rather than remaining black dreams she never quite remembered upon awakening.
Without a word, Jessica picked up her skirts and walked past Wolfe, who was staring at the weary saddle horses. As he had feared, some of them bore the marks of horses used by the South in the recent war. More than one band of outlaws had begun in the embittered rabble of a lost cause. Some had come from the North as well, men who had gotten a taste for looting and killing that hadn’t gone away when the war ended.
Wish to hell Caleb or Reno was
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