Free A Worthy Pursuit by Karen Witemeyer Page B

three-legged stool that had been shoved into the corner behind his bunk and carried it to where he sat. She stopped about an arm’s length away from him, set the stool down, then pulled a lacy handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and wiped the dust from the seat. Frowning slightly at the soiled cloth, she arranged it dirty side down on the stool before sitting herself atop it. “Your quick actions no doubt saved Stephen’s life.” She finally looked him in the face. “I’m only sorry that your bravery caused you so much harm.”
    “Any other man worth his salt would have done the same.” Of course any other man would’ve had a weapon at his disposal and therefore probably would have avoided becoming a human scratching post, but he had no regrets. He was alive. The kid was alive. Shoot, even the cat was alive. He’d count that a victory.
    Miss Atherton glanced toward the open door, a tiny line forming at the edge of her mouth. “Most of the men I’ve known wouldn’t have risked themselves to such an extent.”
    “Then most of the men you’ve known haven’t been worth their salt.”
    That tight little line at the corner of her mouth relaxed into a hint of a smile. Better. When she turned back to face him, her eyes danced, and his heart drummed out the cadence of another victory. “You may be right.”
    Their gazes held, and Stone could swear that something tangible stretched between them. Something he’d never experiencedwith a woman before. Almost as if he recognized her. Not her physical appearance, but her .
    He tore his gaze away, the jerk of his head restoring the throb from his earlier injury. His head. Of course. That would explain the odd feeling of recognition. Some kind of side effect from all the battering he’d encountered today. First a rifle butt to the forehead, then a crack on the back of his skull while he was feigning unconsciousness, and now falling out of a tree and wrestling with a bobcat. Any man would be off his feed after that kind of day.
    Charlotte Atherton perched on the stool next to him, her back straight, her skirt smooth. Such rigid schoolmarm posture should make him think of lemon-faced disapproval, corner banishment, and rulers rapping knuckles. Heaven knew he’d experienced more than his share of such puritanical disdain. Yet Miss Lottie , as the kids called her, looked anything but rigid. Her posture struck him as composed. Serene. Warm.
    “Stephen should be here any minute,” she said as she reached for the cuff on her left wrist. Her slender fingers pushed the button through its hole then rolled the fabric of the sleeve in methodic turns, each fold precise and uniform until it reached a spot just below her elbow. She repeated the procedure on the right side.
    Stone watched, mesmerized, until the shuffle of footsteps passing through the bunkhouse door brought him out of his stupor.
    Good gravy. Had his mind completely gone to mush?
    “Oh, Stephen. Excellent. Bring those things over here.” Miss Prim-and-Proper waved the boy closer and relieved him of the basin he carried, placing it on her lap. A damp circle darkened the blue of the kid’s shirt where the rim of the bowl had pressed against his chest, but she praised him for his steady hands anyway and for not spilling much during his trek from the house. She lifted the washrag from where it lay draped over the boy’s shoulder then pointed a finger at the floor near her feet. “Set my box down there and slide off the lid, please. I’ll need the bandages that are inside.”
    Stephen pulled the box from under his arm, arranged it as instructed, then stood like a soldier awaiting orders. “What else can I do?”
    Stone caught him stealing a glance at the gashes on his chest and hated the guilt that flickered across the kid’s face. Stone cleared his throat. “Can you fetch me a few sheets of paper, pen, and ink? I’ve got a letter that needs to be written.” Which was true enough. But his real motive was to get