Wind Song by Margaret Brownley Page A

down an edge of oil paper from the corner of the blemished windowpane and squinted against the bright morning sun to peer outside.
    He was not quite sure what to make of the sight that greeted him. The schoolteacher was standing by the woodpile, swinging a fairly good-sized piece of scrap wood over her head.
    She was a strange one, all right. He was struck anew by her tall, slender appearance. She wasn't a beauty in the conventional sense, but he had to admit that her flashing green eyes and flaming red hair made an intriguing combination.
    He watched as she plunged forward from the waist until the wood she held touched the ground. The legs of her trousers crept up, leaving an enticing gap between the top of her boots and the hem of her pants.
    The glimpse of feminine flesh reminded him of how she'd felt in his arms last night in the dark, her body firm and hard. Normally he liked his women round and soft. Maybe that's why he'd been unprepared for the flash of awareness that coursed through him when she pressed against his chest. It just proved the old saw: starve a man long enough and anything's likely to look tasty.
    He let his gaze slide down her hard, lean body, trying to imagine the prospect of bedding such a woman. Hell, it would be like taking a piece of pinewood to bed. Didn't anyone ever tell her that a woman's body was not meant to imitate a piece of wainscoting? The thought, curious as it was, did nothing for his peace of mind; under the right circumstances even wainscoting could bend and yield.
    Not usually given to fanciful thoughts, he wondered what it was about her that steered his mind so far off course. He had chores to do. Business to attend to. Yet, even as he admonished himself, he gave the fogged windowpane a quick rub with his fingers for a better look outside.
    The woman straightened and lifted her arms skyward, the wood held high over her head. Her small, round breasts strained enticingly against the fabric of her blouse. He sucked in his breath and watched as she doubled over again.
    Yes, she was definitely an odd one. But he couldn't deny the fact that her presence was most commanding. Yes, indeed, most commanding. Thank God she would soon be gone.
    The smell of burned bacon drew his attention to the sizzling woodstove. The think strips of smoked pork were completely charred, forcing him to scrape the iron skillet and start afresh.
    Conscious of Matthew watching him, Luke pointed to the basin of water he'd set out earlier. "Better wash up. Breakfast will be ready soon."
    Matthew plunged both hands into the water. Luke nodded his approval and glanced back out the window.
    The woman had abandoned the woodpile. Like a wild mustang, she ran past the windo w and disappeared from sight. Luke was about to go to her rescue, thinking she was running from someone or something, when she jogged past the window again, coming from the opposite direction.
    This time he realized she was running around the soddy, her boots but a blur beneath her.
    She lifted her face toward the sky and ripped a comb from her hair. The wind lifted her hair like a bright red banner. There was nothing prim nor even proper about this schoolteacher. No wonder she had been asked to leave her teaching post.
    He shook his head in amusement as he checked the bacon. A quick glance told him that Matthew was making a halfhearted attempt to wash his face. "Don't forget to wash behind your ears."
    He ventured another glance out the window, catching a quick glimpse of her as she ran by for a third time. Strange woman, he thought, no less intrigued. As unpredictable as wildfire.
    Between watching Miss Percy and supervising his young son's morning ablutions, it took him twice as long as usual to cook breakfast. When at last Matthew was dressed and the breakfast was on the table, he opened the door and waited for her to round the front of the soddy before calling out, "Miss Percy. Breakfast."
    She stomped inside, full of vim and vigor. Her forehead