Free Mail Order Josephine - A Historical Mail Order Bride Novel (Western Mail Order Brides) by Kate Whitsby Page B

and down the road toward the Stockton ranch.
    This morning, as soon as both horses passed through the gate and Andrew secured the chain to close it, both he and Josephine kicked their horses to a tremendous gallop over the plane and up the hill to the top of the ridge. Josephine shrieked with wild laughter as they tore along the precipice in a breakneck race to the limits of their horses’ endurance. The wind tore her hat off, but instead of going back to retrieve it, she simply shook her curly locks out behind her and raced on faster than ever. When they stopped at the far end of the ridge top, both horses foamed with sweat, and both she and Andrew gasped with breathless laughter. Andrew especially shook his head at her between pants for breath. “I beat you that time, but we’ll have to do it again when you have a proper saddle. Maybe you can beat me then.”
    “ You beat me ?” she puffed. “You did no such thing! I beat you ! You’re a rotten cheat, if you think you beat me. You couldn’t beat me in a million years. I’ll show you!”
    “That’s what you think!” he snorted. “I’ll teach you to call me a cheat. Come on!” He spurred his horse again, and they raced back to the trees. He led her to the spot where they ate their picnic lunch the previous day. “Here we are. There’s your things.” He pointed to a small bundle at the foot of the tree. “Give me Billy’s reins. I’ll take him around the other side of the trees and put the other saddle on him while you change your clothes. You call me when you’re ready for me to come back.” He took both horses away, and Josephine knelt down on the cool grass and untied the bundle.
    Only when she laid the articles out in front of her did she understand the gravity of what she was about to do. She knew women in New York locked up in jail or sentenced to public humiliation in the stocks for daring to wear trousers. Maybe Andrew Stockton planned to entrap her by giving her this opportunity to shame herself before he exposed her to the wrath of social justice. Maybe his solicitous attention was nothing more than an elaborate confidence game designed to win her trust before he took advantage of her. Once she changed into these clothes, she would not be able to call for help without compromising herself. Then again, who could she call for help in this remote location? She rendered herself virtually helpless the moment she passed beyond the gate with him. No one knew where she was or with whom she came. He held her completely in his power.
    The smart, safe thing to do would be to run as fast as she could go, back to Aunt Agatha, back to the hotel, back to her room, and slam the door and never see Andrew Stockton again. No one need ever know how close she came to such of a dangerous indiscretion. Once she crossed that bridge into perdition, she could never come back to the guiltlessness of her current innocent state. Even if no one ever found out, she would always carry the guilt of her transgression on her soul. And no matter how careful she was, one person would always know she had sullied herself, and that person was Andrew himself. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again, knowing that he held this secret over her? Even when she returned to the company of society, he would control her forever, knowing her secret and wielding the power to denounce her at any moment.
    Oh, hang it all! she thought. At least she could return to her life in New York knowing she dared to challenge her secure little bubble of gentility. She could perhaps tolerate her predetermined slide into withered old maidenhood, holding close to her heart the secret knowledge that, just once in her life, she threw off the shackles of her social position and defied convention. She would seize this moment with both hands and enjoy its full measure of delicious danger. And, above all else, the picture in her mind’s eye of Andrew, with his laughing eyes and his easy, heart-felt