Wind Song Read Online Free PDF

that hung from the wall on polished buffalo horns were definitely masculine in nature. So were the boots lined up neatly against the wall, but it was the clumps of dirt that competed with the dishes and condiments on the table that confirmed her growing suspicion: no woman lived here.
    As if guessing her thoughts, her host brushed away the dirt before setting another plateful of tempting fare on the table. "How did you manage to get here from the train station?"
    "When no one showed up to meet me, I took the horse and wagon that had been left at the station and set out to find the town."
    " Colton burned down a little over a week ago," he explained. "Most went to the next town over to arrange for loans to rebuild. They'll be back, I'm afraid."
    She considered this for a moment. "Who…who were you expecting?"
    "What?"
    "I had the feeling you thought I was someone else."
    He turned to the stove. "I thought you were someone from Hays."
    "Hays?"
    "That's a town three hours away from here."
    "Unless you're chased by a war party," she added. Only his profile was visible, but she didn't miss the alluring way the corner of his mouth lifted upward. If the man ever actually smiled, he would be rather pleasing to look at, she supposed.
    She rubbed her aching back. She wasn't used to sitting for such long periods of time, and the train ride coupled with the long hours spent in the wagon had taken their toll. "The Cheyenne… Are they dangerous?"
    "All people are dangerous when protecting what is theirs." The cutting edge in his voice left little doubt that he was talking about something far more personal, but the hard look in his eyes convinced her not to probe-although probing into people's affairs came second nature to her.
    "I thought that the Indians had been moved south, to Indian territory," she said.
    "Some refuse to let the government decide where they can and cannot make their homes." He turned back to the stove. "Do you blame them for that?"
    "No, I suppose not." Unable to relieve her stiff muscles by rubbing them, she held on to the ladder-back chair and stretched her leg upward until the toe of her boot reached above her waist. Feeling immediate relief, she touched her toes, then positioned herself behind the chair to repeat the exercise.
    He turned just as she raised her other leg. He stood looking at her, his dark eyebrows arched.
    "Leg cramps," she explained, lowering her leg. She smoothed the front of her wrinkled skirt. "I don't know how some people manage to sit all day, do you?"
    "I don't know. Never had much occasion to sit, myself." He set the last plate of steaming hot stew on the table. "You must be hungry."
    "Starved," she agreed.
    She undid the ribbons beneath her chin and pulled off her bonnet, removing also the hairpins that held her bun in place. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders in a cascade of tangled curls. Her mother considered loose hair as much of a transgression as loose morals. One could surmise by the look of surprise on her host's face that his own belief in such matters was equally restrictive.
    Long after the surprise left his face, his eyes continued to linger on her hair. Unable to think of a way to fill in the silence, she grew uncharacteristically self-conscious. "Is there a place I might freshen up?"
    He nodded toward the door. "You'll find a rain barrel at the side of the house." He plucked a dry flour sack from a nail that had been driven into a wooden cabinet and tossed it to her. "You'll find soap on the shelf over the barrel."
    "Thank you." She turned toward the door, stopping when he called her name.
    "Unless you want your stew seasoned with dirt, I suggest you close the door gently."
    She walked outside, taking care not to slam the door. The wind had died down completely, and the surrounding prairie was so dark and silent that she was forced to run her hand along the rough sod walls as she made her way to the side of the house. Overhead a lone star shone through the gauzy film of dust