Free Ain't No Angel by Peggy L Henderson Page A

yellow-colored patchwork quilt on top of the bed. A lace doily lay on top of the dresser.
    Tyler had led her immediately to this room, but passing through what she assumed was the family, or central, room of the house, it was obvious that the place lacked a woman’s touch. A large stone fireplace took up most of the wall opposite the front door, and a painting of a horse that hung over the mantle had immediately caught her attention. The wooden floor looked dull and was in desperate need of a good washing and polishing. If she ever got lost inside the house, she could simply follow the dried mud tracks that led from the entrance down the hall. A distinct odor of leather filled the air. Several saddles and various other tack lay strewn around the floor.
    How long had it been since a woman had lived in this house? Was there even a kitchen? Since she hadn’t been given a formal tour, she’d have to go explore on her own. Dread filled her. Tyler wanted her to cook. She didn’t even have a stove in her motel room, only a microwave. Dinner usually consisted of a warmed up can of soup or a peanut butter sandwich. She’d done a little cooking several years ago when she was still living with one of her foster families, but most everything had been processed and packaged foods. She certainly wouldn’t find any of those things here.
    Laney shrugged it off for now. She had more pressing things to deal with at the moment. She moved in front of the oval mirror hanging over the dresser.
    “Oh my god,” she said slowly, and touched her hands to her hair. “I look like a Barbie doll.”
    Curls of her blonde, normally straight hair were piled on top of her head. More curls framed her face, and tumbled down her back. Laney’s priority swiftly changed from undressing to searching and rooting for all the pins that held her hair in place. She much preferred to wear it swept back in a ponytail, or freely down her back. Curling and styling her hair in this fashion must have taken hours.
    “I sure hope I won’t be expected to do this every day,” she mumbled. 
    Once her hair was free, she went to work releasing the countless buttons on the tight bodice of her dress. More layers of what looked like a white nightgown covered her, and underneath that was a stiff corset.
    “No wonder I can’t breathe.”
    She stepped out of the skirt after untying her tight shoes. She flipped them off, and they landed with a dull thud against the wooden wall of the room. Next, she peeled the stockings off her feet, and wiggled her toes freely for the first time in hours.  Laney sighed loudly.
    Three layers of petticoats followed the skirt, and she finally assessed her appearance in the mirror again. She laughed. There she stood, in white bloomers, a corset, and a white chemise under that.
    She raked her hands through her hair to straighten the curls as best she could, then knelt in front of one of the trunks. Flipping open the lid, she rummaged through the contents. Petticoats, undergarments, dresses, corsets, several hats.
    “No jeans and no t-shirts,” she stated the obvious. Somehow she had already known she wouldn’t find any familiar or comfortable clothes in her luggage. The reverend hadn’t been kidding. Everything she’d seen so far pointed to the truth. She truly was in the year 1872.
    What would Tyler think if she wore modern-day clothes? A slow smile spread across her face. Her fingers tingled suddenly at the memory of his hand wrapping around hers, pulling her up off the ground after she lost her footing and fell from the wagon. Of all the embarrassing things to do, but he hadn’t laughed at her, hadn’t made fun of her mishap. There had been genuine concern in his eyes.
    Tyler was the most polite guy she’d ever met, and it made him even more attractive. She wondered again why he would require a prostitute . . . correction, a mail order bride, when he could probably have his pick of a wife locally. Was it true that there really