His Passionate Pioneer Read Online Free PDF

be—well, they didn't need to know that he wanted both; the angel by his side and the harlot in his bed that made up the wonderful Anna—the one woman he would spend the rest of his life loving.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Three
     
     
    After the church auction and the picnic, Richard accompanied Anna home in his wagon. As she tried not to wince with the bouncing of the vehicle along the rutted road, she wondered about her Pa's quickly given permission. It was apparent that her father trusted Mr. Andrews on a level that seemed to run deep. When Richard had complimented her yet again on the food in her basket, she'd finally admitted that she'd had help.
    "Margaret is the better cook," she'd said, as she told him how the first batch of biscuits had been burned when she'd forgotten she'd even put them in the oven. "But I did manage not to burn the chicken—well, not the pieces in the basket." He'd laughed, and assured her that the meal had been delicious.
    Anna felt her heart soar when he swung her down from the wagon. His hands remained around her waist for a bit longer than was proper, but she didn't mind at all. It was only when her Ma called for her that she blushed as he gave her a grin that had her heart racing. The women went into the house, and though they'd eaten not that long ago, they knew the men would be hungry soon. They put on aprons and went into the kitchen.
    After helping John and his sons secure the horses, brushing them down and forking fresh hay into their stalls, Richard spent some time with John. He had a contented smile on his face as he went into the house and asked Anna if she'd join him for a stroll before supper. More than glad to get out of helping Margaret and her Ma with the supper preparations, she eagerly agreed. Walking towards him, she untied her apron and tossed it across the back of a chair.
    She was a bit puzzled when he asked her whether aprons covered in flour were the newest fashion accessory. Shrugging, she was halfway to the front door when he suggested she retrieve her shawl.
    "What is it about accessories?" she asked, her hands on her hips. "I thought you wanted to walk, not criticize my attire." Though she had to admit the statement came out a bit more sharply than she'd intended, she didn't expect the reaction she received when he remained silent, his eyes boring into hers. When his left eyebrow quirked, she felt a fluttering in her stomach.
    "I don't consider it criticism when it's a statement given out of concern, Annabelle." His tone was calm, his posture relaxed—and yet she felt a sensation of the skin crawling across her backside. "Your Ma and Margaret are being considerate by not complaining that, not only did you not ask them if they minded, you simply assumed that their doing your part of the chores was a given. As well as not bothering to ask, you didn't bother to thank them, and have now given them the additional chore of cleaning up the flour you spread on the floor by tossing your apron about." He paused, long enough for her to look and see that there was indeed a layer of flour on the floor of the dining room, as well as a dusting across the chair. "As for the shawl, you know it will grow colder as soon as evening falls, and I don't want you to catch a chill."
    Anna felt years slipping away as he spoke, chastising her in a way that wasn't harsh or ugly, but rather in a way that forced her to consider her own thoughtlessness. While a little voice in her head urged her to remind him that he was a guest in her home, and if he didn't like the way she behaved he was free to leave, another voice in her heart told her she'd be very sorry to see him go. Turning again, she carefully picked up her apron and moved to hang it on a hook beside the kitchen door. A broom and dust rag had the spilled flour quickly removed from the floor and chair.
    "Ma, would you mind if I take a walk with Mr. Andrews?" she said, as soon as she'd cleaned away all the flour.
    Martha gave her a smile,