Trail Angel Read Online Free PDF

Annabelle intended to rid herself of corsets as well. If anyone asked, she would blame the sacrifice of fashion on the need to reduce weight in the wagons.
    With her mother, aunt and young cousins in tow, Annabelle led the way five blocks along Farnham Street to M. Hellman & Co., a dealer in ready-made clothing and other goods. She and her father had completed most of the purchases they needed for the trip, along with the goods they hoped to sell in Virginia City, yet there remained some final things they needed.
    It distressed Annabelle to see how much more expensive things were here than in Charleston. They would be even costlier in the mining towns, where many stores accepted payment in gold dust but not greenbacks. She had read that during one winter the price for flour rose to twenty-five dollars a sack. Every hundred pounds they bought here for three dollars would not only feed them along the way but help them afford to eat when they reached Montana.
    Hellman’s bustled with activity, and the family split up on entering the store. Wandering to a table covered with women’s clothing, Annabelle spied on the others with a feigned casualness. Her mother looked at candles. Her aunt Blanche took the children—fourteen-year-old Caroline and her brothers, twelve-year-old Mark and ten-year-old Jimmy—to study the selection of hard candy behind a glass counter on the other side of the store.
    Certain their attention was diverted, Annabelle reached for the garment before her. Made of basic gray wool, it resembled an undergarment or gymnasium costume. Annabelle knew better, only because she had seen young northern women dressed in a similar fashion. Her mother described the outfit as scandalous, but where her mother saw immorality, Annabelle saw a bold practicality. She had associated bloomers with abolitionists and members of the temperance movement—until venturing to a new world where bloomers would be more practical than crinoline and corsets.
    Holding the fabric to her waist, Annabelle imagined the fit on her body. Hoping to keep out of view of her mother and aunt, she turned her back to the others—and bumped into Josey Angel.
    â€œMa’am,” he said, with a respectful touch of his broad cavalry hat. He looked at her, at the bloomers, then back at her. Flustered, she could think of nothing to say. She waited for him to speak, but he stood dumb, holding an armful of ammunition boxes. His face betrayed only an arched eyebrow and that twitch at the corner of his mouth she recalled from the previous night.
    Quickly replacing the bloomers, Annabelle turned to move, but he remained in her way. “Are you going to greet me like a proper gentleman or stand there like an ox all day?”
    He stepped back and offered a curt bow, which only kept her penned in. “Are we acquainted?”
    Annabelle scoffed. She wasn’t vain, but Josey Angel had looked directly at her the night before. Men did not forget her so readily.
    â€œNot formally, no, but you met last night with my father, Langdon Rutledge.” His damnably impassive face offered not even a flicker of recognition. “I was there,” she added. His eyes were dark and soft, but they revealed nothing. He was either a skillful actor or he honestly had no recollection of her. Annabelle couldn’t decide which irritated her more.
    â€œI am Annabelle Rutledge Holcombe,” she said with more shrug than curtsy. Still seeing no reaction, she sighed and extended her hand. Balancing his boxes, he took her hand but still said nothing. A country bumpkin. “And you, I presume are Mr. Angel—”
    â€œAnglewicz. But, please, call me Josef.”
    â€œMr. Angel-witch,” she said, wincing at the pronunciation.
    He released her hand quickly. “My apologies, ma’am. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
    He became aware he blocked her path and apologized again. “I intended no disrespect.” He