Free 0800722329 by Jane Kirkpatrick

too, while I stirred the stews that would feed us. I missed reading to the girls.
    “I read a Washington Irving book once.”
    “ Rip Van Winkle ?”
    He shook his head. “No, ma’am. That’s a short story. I read Astoria ! It’s about settling this country. I brought it with me from Missouri. I’ll lend it to you, if you like.”
    “I would like that.” His sweet offer surprised me, as did his knowledge of a short story versus a book. “I wasn’t aware that you liked to read so much, Mr. Warren.”
    “I figured reading is something that matters to you. I bet your father has never asked you what you like to read, now has he?”
    “No. It’s a given that I do read and inform my mind and study Scripture.”
    “But reading’s a pleasure and you deserve such, Eliza. You really do.” His voice was honey to a bitter tea. After a pause, he changed the subject. “I’ve been listening to your father. In church, I have.” I raised my eyebrows at this news. “He doesn’t speak much of getting what we deserve except for the disasters that befall us.” He inhaled as though speaking out of turn. “I interpret the Scripture he reads differently. Isn’t it sayin’ that we’re all worthy just by being loved by God? Even though we mess up?”
    Good enough just by being born? That hardly seemed likely but it was an intriguing thought, made more so coming from Mr. Warren.
    We’d ridden north, skirting Brown and Blakely’s where my father postmastered. Rachel thought me out bringing in the cows, but since she had no idea of how long it took to round them up or milk our two, I took the chance when Mr. Warren rode out of the shade of the oak looking like a man who saw me as beautiful despite the darkness that dwelled inside. We dismounted. I spread the blanket I’d rolled in front of me. We lay back beneath the trees, me with arms crossed over my chest, he up on his elbow, his other arm stroking my wrists. The scent of horse from the blanket tickled my nose and I sneezed.
    “I’m ready to commit,” he said. “I’ll let your father pray upon my head and say whatever words he wants of me, to show you that I love you with all my heart.”
    I swallowed. “It’s not me you’re to love with all your heart.” But oh, I so wanted him to love me fully, even though I knew it was a greater love that would bind us if it was meant to be. I had conjured a terrible life with him, his drinking being something serious, his kindness to me a ploy to get me to give myself to him, heart and soul and body. I imagined him injured by a runaway horse and being an invalid I’d need to care for. These thoughts contained my world, made it livable especially when chaosthreatened as it did with Mr. Warren’s breath blushed sweet against my neck. My own breathing shortened, his whiskers rough against my chin. I imagined my father being outraged at our marriage. I imagined Mr. Warren’s drinking—if the rumors were true—interfering with our happiness. I imagined I could never please him. Yet my heartbeat quickened.
    “If I do, will you marry me?”
    “Oh, Mr. Warren, yes.”
    “When?” He was so close I could see the pores in his skin where whiskers threatened.
    “December, next year.” I breathed fast. “After I turn seventeen. Rachel will have learned enough by then to keep my father and his children fed. Christmas is a lovely time to wed.” I searched his eyes. Is he serious, truly?
    “It is. But must we wait until a year and a half?”
    “Where will we live?” A sudden practicality raised its head.
    “I’ve found a place. A donation land claim the owner wants to sell. It’s up in the hills a little ways. Lots of trees we can cut and take to the mill. Some meadow land for the small herd I’ve accumulated. There’s already a cabin. Want to see it?”
    I did. But I also didn’t want to leave this place of safety, lying beneath the trees, the sound of the Calapooia River gurgling, Mr. Warren’s warmth beside me. Could