Free The Horseman's Bride by Elizabeth Lane Page A

say.”
    The rest of the dream was always the same—running, running, down the long, curving stairway and out the front door and onto the porch, where he’d paused long enough to think about fleeing in his new green Packard. No good, he’d decided. The roads could be blocked, the flashy auto easily spotted. Decision made, he’d raced for the stable.
    The irony of taking Hollis’s prize Thoroughbred stud, worth a small fortune, hadn’t escaped him. But he’d chosen the stallion for its power and speed, not for its pedigree. Ruby, he knew, would not report the horse missing.
    “Where will you go, Jace? What will you do?” Her frantic questions had echoed in memory, lost in the scream of the train whistle as he raced through the night.
    Where will you go? What will you do?
    Lord help him, he had no answers.
     
    Clara huddled on the wooden chair beside the bed. Beneath the loose flannel nightgown, her knees were drawn up against her chest. Her eyes watched Tanner’s restless sleep, concentrating on him to distract herself from the shocking secret she’d uncovered. His legs twitched as if he were running in a murky dream. His lips moved forming words she couldn’t make out. Only once had he spoken clearly—a name, Ruby.
    Who was this Ruby? she wondered. A wife? A sweetheart? But why should she care? Until yesterday she hadn’t even known the man existed. And as soon as he was well enough, assuming he survived, he’d be gone, taking the stallion with him. The only thing she knew about him for sure was that he couldn’t be trusted. He was as mysterious as the wind.
    But then, considering what she’d learned today, was anything what it appeared to be?
    The clock in Mary’s parlor chimed the hour of two.Outside, the storm raged on, wind battering the house, rain turning the pastures to swamps and the yard to a sea of mud. A storm like this one would flood the road and probably wash out the bridge. Clara had already abandoned hope that Mary would make it home today. Her mother and Katy would likely be stranded as well and have to take a room for the night. The telephone lines were down—Clara had discovered that when she’d tried to call home. She was on her own here, with a man who could just as easily die as live.
    This whole day had turned into a trip through the looking glass.
    How many people had known that Quint was her father? Judd would have known, of course, as well as Mary and Aunt Annie and heaven knew who else. So when had they planned to let her in on the family secret?
    Clara pressed her face to her knees, feeling the hardness of bone against her eye sockets. Questions flocked in her mind like the blackbirds she’d seen crossing the fields this morning.
    Why hadn’t Quint received her mother’s letters? When had he learned he’d become a father? No doubt he’d at least found out when he returned home from wherever he’d gone. But the divorce had never happened. Quint had walked away, leaving Judd to raise his baby daughter. And six years later, after that terrible time in San Francisco, Quint had married Aunt Annie. Happy as the two of them appeared to be, they’d never been able to have children.
    Clara stared down at her hands, at the square nails and the exaggerated webbing between her fourth and fifth fingers. Even her hands were a smaller version of his. She was Quint’s child. His only child.
    An image flashed through her mind—Quint’s bruised and bleeding hands reaching toward her through the rubble of the San Francisco earthquake that had followed her kidnapping, the glimmer of tears in his eyes as he’d pulled her to safety. He had nearly lost his life rescuing her on that awful day. And he had known she was his. The whole time, he had known…
    “Hello, there.” Tanner’s raspy voice startled Clara out of her reverie. She raised her head to see him gazing up at her sleepy eyed, his skin flushed and dry.
    “How do you feel?” she asked him.
    “Like hell,” he muttered.