Gingham Bride by Jillian Hart Page B

understanding as he led the way down the main aisle. “Had someone stabling a horse ask if you’d be interested in an offer, but I can see you wouldn’t. Don’t blame you there.”
    “No, I want to keep her.” Grief cut him deep at all the other horse friends he’d been forced to sell. That made it harder to think of letting another go. The mare caught sight of him, tossing her head and scolding him, as if the last thing she approved of was that he had taken an adventure without her. “Sorry, girl. You’ll forgive a poor fellow, won’t you?”
    Duchess gave him a hard look and blew out a breath through her lips. She lowered her head, allowing him to rub her neck and ears. “Looks like you took good care of her. Thanks, Russell.”
    “My pleasure. I’ll go fetch your saddle,” he called over his shoulder.
    Alone with his favorite girl, he leaned close, resting his forehead against her warm velvet neck. “You feel up to heading back home?”
    Duchess didn’t complain, although he thought of the deep drifts, much higher now than when they’d first arrived. She’d struggled with them, which was why he’d stabled her in the first place. He hadn’t liked leaving her, but the notion of taking her back out in the hazardous cold and difficult snow gave him pause. Did he leave her here one more night and start fresh come morning? He could always curl up in the stall with her for the night. It was something to consider.
    “You would have liked Fiona.” He stroked the velvety curve of his mare’s nose, just the way she liked it. She sighed deep in her throat, a contented sound. Calm filled him like still water, as it always did when he was around the animals he loved. He missed his horses. He missed his way of life and his calling. That’s what he ought to be thinking about. That’s where his concerns should be. But they weren’t. He could not get Fiona O’Rourke out of his mind. She had burrowed beneath his skin and claimed a part of him.
    Duchess nickered low and sweet, leaning into his touch as if she were asking to hear more.
    “Nana was right about her.” If betrayal panged deep within his chest, he paid it no heed. Whatever his grandmother had done, she had done it for him out of love. He could not fault her for that. And if places new and surprising within his heart seemed to open for the first time upon thinking of Fiona’s dear face, then he denied that well and good. Aye, a smart man would not acknowledge anything that could not aid his life’s plans.
    “The farm was not in good shape. The barn poorly maintained, the fence posts sagging in the fields. But the land was something. I like these wide-reaching plains. What do you think, Duchess?”
    She tossed her head up and down as if in agreement. He supposed the endless prairie called to her spirit, too, calling her to race the wind. Unbidden, the image of Fiona sprang into his mind, the one that had kept him up much of the night trying and failing to get it down on paper. He had captured the curve of her cheek as her dark curls brushed it, the bold set of her porcelain jaw and the swirl of her skirt when she had first turned in that storm to face him. The first moment he had seen her face was emblazoned in his mind, and he’d been able to replicate her big, honest eyes, perfect sloping nose and rosebud mouth. What he’d not been able to capture was the strength and radiance of her spirit.
    Somewhere a bell chimed, muted by snowfall and distance, marking the time. Didn’t sound musical like a church bell. A school bell, he figured, announcing the end of the school day. Ten miles down the rails, Fiona would be leaving the warm schoolhouse. Would she be walking with friends? Did she get her sewing done?
    His gut twisted tight, a sure sign he was acting against his conscience.
    “Sure is a nice saddle you’ve got.” Russell lumbered into sight. “Don’t see gear like this in these parts.”
    “Don’t tell me you’ve got an offer for it,