High Country Bride by Linda Lael Miller Page A

meant to convey her thoughts. Granted, the storm showed no signs of relenting—indeed, it seemed to be growing more ferocious by the minute—but Concepcion was an intelligent woman and must have had good reason for making the trip. Emmeline rose from her chair, set her sewing on the seat, and went to peer through the misted window over the sink, as though by looking she could cause her friend to appear.
    “Did she ride, or take the buggy?” Rafe wanted to know. He looked—and sounded—as irascible as before.
    Emmeline flinched as thunder shook the house and lightning split the sky, outlining trees and outbuildings in an eerie, blue-gold glow.“I’m not sure,” she admitted. Her irritation at Rafe’s attitude had given way to a quiet but elemental fear.“Do you think she’s all right?” A whisper.
    “A lot of things can happen in this country, especially in this kind of weather,” Rafe said. “I’d better go and find her.” He rummaged around on the covered porch for another pair of boots and yanked them on. By then, Emmeline had fetched her cloak from the peg next to the door.
    “I’m going with you,” she said.
    “No, you’re not,” he replied flatly.
    Emmeline put her hands on her hips. “While we’re standing around arguing, Mr. McKettrick, Concepcion could be catching her death of pneumonia out there.”
    “And you figure it makes sense for you to rush right out and catch it too?” he retorted.
    “You might need my help.”
    “I can’t imagine ever needing your help,” Rafe said.
    He might as well have struck her. She opened her mouth, and promptly closed it again, too stricken to speak.
    He leaned in, jamming his arms, one by one, into the sleeves of a dry coat.“Just stay here,” he snapped.
    Emmeline fought back humiliating tears. Was this the same man who had given her a gold wedding band on top of a mountain, after showing her where their house would stand? “No!” she snapped back. “I am going, whether you like the idea or not.” In fact, maybe she would just point herself toward Indian Rock, once they were sure Concepcion was safe, and keep right on going.
    “If you want to make yourself useful, start heating up some water. I’m going to want a hot bath when I get back here.”
    “Heat your own bathwater,” Emmeline said, striding across the porch and picking her way down the steps to the yard. “I intend to find my friend!” With that, she dashed across the rain-swept grass toward the barn. The creek was roaring in the near distance, swelling its banks, the sky was ugly as a new bruise, and the rain came in torrents.
    Rafe caught her by the arm and goose-stepped her the rest of the way, practically flinging her into the cool dampness of the barn. “Listen to me,” he rasped. “I might have been a little gruff back there in the kitchen, but the plain fact is, you’re only going to slow me down.”
    Emmeline’s cheeks flared with indignant color, but she held her tongue. She marched to Banjo’s stall, threw a halter over the mare’s head, and led her out into the main part of the barn. She didn’t bother looking for the saddle; she wouldn’t know how to put it on the animal anyway. Surely, she reasoned, she could manage a bridle.
    With a gusty sigh, Rafe turned away from her, throwing his hands into the air, and proceeded to saddle a horse for himself. His gelding, Chief, remained in his stall, steam rising off his hide because of the wetness in the air.
    Emmeline chose a bridle, wrestled it onto Banjo’s head, and led the poor beast to stand alongside a bale of hay, which she used as a mounting block. Rafe and his horse were already approaching the burgeoning creek when she finally persuaded her recalcitrant little mare to leave the shelter of the barn.
    Keeping up was impossible; the rain was a smothering, impenetrable curtain between her and Rafe. Emmeline knew she should swallow her pride and go back to the house, but she couldn’t make herself do either of