Free A Cowboy Unmatched by Karen Witemeyer Page A

shameful to be toted around like a helpless lamb. Even if such action left her feeling delightfully cherished.
    â€œAny mementos or geegaws you want me to pack up with your clothes?” he asked on his way to her room, a small trunk tucked under his arm—the trunk that had once carried her trousseau.
    She’d banished the leather case to the barn loft, packing away the table linens and embroidered pillowcases she’d lovingly crafted as a young woman, after she realized the true reason Matthew had married her. A tiny act of rebellion, one he’d never even noticed, but an essential one for her. She’d had to preserve her hopes, protect them from the withering forces of reality. Somehow it made it easier to endure a loveless marriage if her dreams were packed into a trunk for safekeeping.
    Now they were back and in the hands of another man. Would he care for them? Or simply dump them on the floor to make room for clothing and supplies?
    â€œClara?” he asked again. “Anything special you want me to pack?”
    Feeling rather like Gideon laying out a fleece, she said nothing about the linens. “Just the photograph of my parents and my mother’s Bible on the bedside table.”
    He nodded crisply, then disappeared into her bedroom. Drawers opened and closed, and a blush rose to her cheeks as she imagined him stuffing her undergarments and stockings into the trunk along with her two good skirts and shirtwaists.
    Then a great rustling ensued. What on earth was he doing in there?
    A moment later the answer became apparent as he carefully navigated the doorway with her mattress, minus the soiled bedding, tucked under his arm.
    â€œWhat are you doing with that ?”
    He gave her a stern look. “You are going to rest in the wagon on the way to Amarillo. I’m not about to have you come down with childbed fever because you were forced from your home hours after giving birth. Harrison needs his mama, and I aim to see she stays around to watch him grow up.”
    Clara opened her mouth to protest, then promptly shut it as she recalled that Neill’s mother had died from such a fever mere days after he was born. His high-handed orders were symptoms of his concern. She supposed she could let him coddle her a bit if it made him feel better, though there was no way she’d actually sleep with the threat of Mack Danvers hanging over their heads.
    But sleep she did. Nearly the entire way to Amarillo. She woke when the buckboard’s wheel hit a rut and she found herself under a pile of blankets. Harrison’s crate lay beside her, sheltered from the wind by the sides of the wagon and her trunk.
    She craned her neck to peer up at Neill. He was facing forward, his wide shoulders and broad back exuding strength as he somehow managed to keep the two mismatched horses to a steady gait. Mo towered over her little gray mare, but the two seemed to have settled into a rhythm.
    Clara’s gaze darted to her trunk, curiosity compelling her forward. Was her fleece wet or dry? Biting her lip, she cast one last glance at Neill, then quietly levered herself to a sitting position and began working furiously at the trunk straps. Once they were loose, she opened the lid and dug her hand down past the petticoats and nightdresses until her fingers stroked a neatly folded fabric edge. Her heart did a little flip as she latched onto the piece and tugged it upward. Embroidered flowers of blue and yellow danced across white cotton. Her eyes misted as her lips curled upward.
    He’d kept her linens.

  Chapter 10  
    Neill ran a weary hand over his face as the train rattled along the tracks. Whiskers scratched his palm. His lids closed over eyes that burned from a combination of too much soot and too little sleep. They’d been on this train for the better portion of two days. Two days of hard wooden seats, stale air, and noise that never seemed to end.
    He hadn’t been able to afford