Marrying Stone Read Online Free PDF Page B

the difference between little boys and little girls.
    It was that reader that she'd found in Mama's trunk. At the schoolhouse they had
McGuffey
, good lessons about good boys and girls. But Meggie had found the worn, faded book of fairy tales. They had been much more interesting than the stern admonitions of
McGuffey
. And her imagination had taken flight. Fanciful, that's what her father had called it. And when she'd read about Rapunzel, she'd decided that none of the local boys would ever do. A real prince was coming up the mountain for Meggie Best someday. She was sure of it. Unfortunately, this morning she'd thought that he'd arrived.
    Meggie shook her head and gritted her teeth against the pain of embarrassment that welled up inside her. It wasn't bad enough that she had blurted out her secret thoughts and thrown herself at the fellow. She had been rather rudely thrown back, and now she'd gone and made him gut-sick. Pa would see that he stayed 'til he was on his feet.
    How would she stand it? To look into those dark, handsome eyes and remember that she'd gone after him like a bear to a honey pot. What a fool she had made of herself. Meggie moaned aloud and covered her face with her hands. Making her way to the back shelf, she found her piccalilli on the top right side. Lined up in perfect order and looking  downright beautiful were sixteen quarts of the relish. Shaking her head, she sighed. She couldn't figure it out. She was twice as smart as most of the women that she knew. And yet even the silliest women on the mountain could stir up a light, airy batch of biscuits or a mess of cooked greens with both eyes closed. Meggie did everything that they did. But somehow, in Meggie's kitchen, the results could never be guaranteed. Cooking was definitely one of her failings. A fanciful nature was the other. And, dad-burn and blast, the city stranger had discovered both of them in one day.
    With a sigh of disappointment she began loading the piccalilli jars into an empty bushel basket.
    "With my luck, it'll make the hogs sick, too," she said.
    Her thoughts drifted back once more to the handsome young man now lying ill in her brother's bed: J. Monroe Farley.
    "Who ever heard of such a name," she whispered indignantly.
    She certainly hadn't heard anything like it, not before that very morning.
     
    Roe Farley's eyes fluttered open. It was late, the last light of evening pierced through the window at a sharp angle. The room had stopped spinning, but the memory of his sickness lingered. For a long moment he didn't remember where he was. His mouth tasted bitterly sour and his stomach felt empty and hollow from his breastbone to his spine. Then the memory came. A gleaming blue quart jar of piccalilli and Meggie Best.
    He glanced over toward the fireplace that glowed brightly orange in the dim light of the cabin. She favored her brother some, he thought. But her hair was a darker blond and her eyes were not as blue. And of course, he was simple. And she was deranged.
    He heard the soft sounds of her bare feet padding across the floor. He remembered those feet. He'd heard jokes about barefooted Ozark women, but somehow he hadn't expected to encounter it in one so young. The feet that had captured his attention were neither dainty nor prettily pink. They were long, narrow feet with high arches and skinny little toes. Those very sturdy, very ordinary, very feminine feet had captured his imagination. In all his years of being enticed and attracted by the opposite sex, never before had the woman's feet ever played a part.
    Enticed and attracted! He quickly pushed the thought away. Even now with his stomach still quaking and his head still spinning a bit, he swore to himself that he was not in any way attracted to Meggie Best. Still, the thought of those bare female feet brought a smile to his face even through his sickness.
    He was alone in the cabin, except for her. Deliberately he remained quiet so that she wouldn't know he was awake. If