Dorothy Garlock Read Online Free PDF Page A

sitting very still, looking off toward the west. When she did, she gripped a handful of the long hair around his neck and ceased the movement of the dasher so she could listen. She couldn’t hear anything, but she could tell by the way Charlie tilted his head that he did.
    “What is it, boy? Is someone coming?” Charlie looked at her and began to wag his tail. “Is it
him
?” The dog’s tail wagged harder and he strained against the hold she had on him. “Are you wanting to play with that strange dog? He may not be friendly this time.” She had to turn him loose if she was going to pick up the churn and go inside the cabin.
    The instant he was free of her grip, Charlie was off and running. Rosalee stood on the step and watched him. He was clearly visible in the moonlight; then he disappeared in the shadows, and she heard his bark of welcome. It was
him
! She had not really thought it was anyone else. Charlie was delighted that his friend had come back. What should she do? Should she go inside and let him leave the ax and be on his way, never to see him again? If she stayed would he think she had been waiting for him? For a long moment she continued to stand there, her eyes fastened to the break in the trees, an alien feeling in the pit of her stomach.
    He came riding out of the shadows and into the moonlight. The wolf dog and Charlie frolicked around him. When they got too close to the foal, the mare whinnied and spun around in position to lash out with her hind legs. The dogs ignored her, ran around each other, reared up, and nipped at each other’s throats. Rosalee thought the wolf dog was wonderfully patient with Charlie, who was little more than a pup and full of youthful enthusiasm.
    Rosalee scarcely had time to note that the travois was no longer attached to the mare and that she had a pack on her back before Logan Horn was riding into the yard. Her hand sought the dasher and she began to move it up and down, unconsciously seeking to provide a reason for being on the step. Her eyes clung to his face. He was wearing the buckskins, and the flat, round-brimmed hat was pushed back to his hairline.
    “Evening, ma’am. I’ve brought back the ax.” He pulled the stallion to a halt not ten feet from her, dismounted, and lifted the ax from a loop on the saddle. “I’m much obliged for the use of it. It would pleasure me to cut some wood in payment.”
    “That won’t be necessary,” Rosalee said sharply. “Folks need to help one another when they can without expecting something for it.”
    “I’m not used to asking for help, ma’am. It galled me to have to knock on your door.” His voice was cold and flat.
    “Why? I’d not have hesitated to ask you for help if my Pa had been sick.”
    “You’re not a breed, ma’am.”
    “How do you know that? I’m English and German. That makes me a breed. The Indians, the Mexicans, and the Chinese are the only people in the West that aren’t a mixture of some nationality or the other. You’re obviously very sensitive about your blood, Mr. Horn. I’d think you’d—” She cut off her outburst as though a hand had been clamped over her mouth, and flushed to the roots of her hair. She stood there staring at him, wondering why in the world she had let her tongue run away with her.
    “You’d think I’d . . . what?” He leaned on the ax and looked at her. The stallion had begun to snort and toss his head. Horn turned, gathered the reins in his hand, and walked toward the woodpile.
    She heard him sink the blade in the log and fully expected him to mount up and ride away, but he tied the horse to a stump and came back. She was working the dasher briskly up and down, although she was sure the cream had turned to butter.
    “I haven’t had buttermilk in years.”
    She had expected him to say anything but that. The tension went out of her and she breathed deeply. “Would you like some?”
    “I have a cup in my saddlebag.” His tone was lighter, friendlier.
    “Have