when she’d called after him. She’d wanted him to know her marital status. He couldn’t hold back his chuckle. Dire as the situation had been, she’d tagged his britches and held on for dear life, trusting him more than the useless fool they had for a sheriff.
The thought of Hank Simpson led him to the third item on his mental list of things to worry about. The sheriff had been real vague, declaring he had no idea who could have been on Grayson property threatening Edge. He was so busy avoiding Edge’s gaze, he’d looked out his window and cursed at what he’d seen.
“Dammit to hell, River’s in for it now,” the sheriff had muttered, hurrying to the window. Simpson had stood peering through the glass instead of leaving the safety of his office to deal with the jackass tormenting a woman in the middle of the town street.
When the sheriff didn’t offer the woman named River any aid, Edge intervened. As soon as he’d walked outside, and asked if she needed help, she’d looked over her shoulder and no power on earth could have kept him from answering the plea in those big green eyes. Besides, he already knew the man deviling her was a sonofabitch.
All in all, it had been an eventful second trip to Isaca. For a sleepy little town without much action, it had been bouncing today. He mulled things over, riding halfway home before he remembered the nails he still needed. He’d already wasted half a work day and the store wouldn’t be open again until Monday. It pained him to do it, but he turned Sandy around and rode back to Isaca.
It surprised him to see the woman in his thoughts, sitting on a stool outside the store, fiddling with a mechanical contraption. He sat on Sandy, not sure whether to say hello, belatedly apologize for trespassing, or climb down and look at the contraption she was worrying over. Considering hours earlier she’d had her hands in his pants, it did seem as if they knew each other already.
His hesitance cost him the opportunity to speak. A horse drawing a wagon trotted briskly down the street. When the driver reached the store, he stopped, turned and backed the wagon bed tight up next to Sandy. Edge didn’t know the old man but, he knew when he was being crowded.
“Amos, help me put this into the wagon.” Her words came out rough with emotion.
If Edge had to guess, he’d say it was rage he heard. Instead of going inside to buy his nails, he divided his gaze between the woman and the machine.
“River, can it be fixed?” the store clerk asked, coming outside to stand by Edge.
“What happened to it?” he asked, staring into the prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen and not at the wreck on the ground.
“Emmett Price broke it,” the clerk volunteered when River didn’t answer.
“Naw,” Edge disagreed, bending to take a closer look. “Straighten the frame and tighten the spokes. That’ll probably do it.” It looked to him like someone had given it a good stomping.
“Emmett Price would be the man you had words with in the street?” he asked Miss Green-eyes. She’d been a little woozy for a spell out there, but she seemed recovered now.
“Yes,” the clerk answered for her again.
“You work on bicycles?” Finally River spoke, directing her question at him. The store clerk opened her lips but didn’t know the right word to say.
”Never worked on anything exactly like yours, but I know a chain from a sprocket.” Edge cut the clerk from the conversation and answered for her.
“Amos, this is Edge Grayson, our neighbor. Mr. Grayson, Amos Butler is foreman of the Prescott ranch.”
So she’s River Prescott. He looked his fill, while the foreman wore an expression men folks wear when they’re guarding decent women from riffraff like him.
Edge bent his head in acknowledgement but when no handshake was offered, he went into the store to buy his nails, leaving Miss Prescott and her foreman staring at the two-wheeler. The clerk followed Edge inside.
When he came back
The thought of Hank Simpson led him to the third item on his mental list of things to worry about. The sheriff had been real vague, declaring he had no idea who could have been on Grayson property threatening Edge. He was so busy avoiding Edge’s gaze, he’d looked out his window and cursed at what he’d seen.
“Dammit to hell, River’s in for it now,” the sheriff had muttered, hurrying to the window. Simpson had stood peering through the glass instead of leaving the safety of his office to deal with the jackass tormenting a woman in the middle of the town street.
When the sheriff didn’t offer the woman named River any aid, Edge intervened. As soon as he’d walked outside, and asked if she needed help, she’d looked over her shoulder and no power on earth could have kept him from answering the plea in those big green eyes. Besides, he already knew the man deviling her was a sonofabitch.
All in all, it had been an eventful second trip to Isaca. For a sleepy little town without much action, it had been bouncing today. He mulled things over, riding halfway home before he remembered the nails he still needed. He’d already wasted half a work day and the store wouldn’t be open again until Monday. It pained him to do it, but he turned Sandy around and rode back to Isaca.
It surprised him to see the woman in his thoughts, sitting on a stool outside the store, fiddling with a mechanical contraption. He sat on Sandy, not sure whether to say hello, belatedly apologize for trespassing, or climb down and look at the contraption she was worrying over. Considering hours earlier she’d had her hands in his pants, it did seem as if they knew each other already.
His hesitance cost him the opportunity to speak. A horse drawing a wagon trotted briskly down the street. When the driver reached the store, he stopped, turned and backed the wagon bed tight up next to Sandy. Edge didn’t know the old man but, he knew when he was being crowded.
“Amos, help me put this into the wagon.” Her words came out rough with emotion.
If Edge had to guess, he’d say it was rage he heard. Instead of going inside to buy his nails, he divided his gaze between the woman and the machine.
“River, can it be fixed?” the store clerk asked, coming outside to stand by Edge.
“What happened to it?” he asked, staring into the prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen and not at the wreck on the ground.
“Emmett Price broke it,” the clerk volunteered when River didn’t answer.
“Naw,” Edge disagreed, bending to take a closer look. “Straighten the frame and tighten the spokes. That’ll probably do it.” It looked to him like someone had given it a good stomping.
“Emmett Price would be the man you had words with in the street?” he asked Miss Green-eyes. She’d been a little woozy for a spell out there, but she seemed recovered now.
“Yes,” the clerk answered for her again.
“You work on bicycles?” Finally River spoke, directing her question at him. The store clerk opened her lips but didn’t know the right word to say.
”Never worked on anything exactly like yours, but I know a chain from a sprocket.” Edge cut the clerk from the conversation and answered for her.
“Amos, this is Edge Grayson, our neighbor. Mr. Grayson, Amos Butler is foreman of the Prescott ranch.”
So she’s River Prescott. He looked his fill, while the foreman wore an expression men folks wear when they’re guarding decent women from riffraff like him.
Edge bent his head in acknowledgement but when no handshake was offered, he went into the store to buy his nails, leaving Miss Prescott and her foreman staring at the two-wheeler. The clerk followed Edge inside.
When he came back
Similar Books
