frown, then stopped himself. No, he thought ferociously. I won't let her dourness affect me. It was too bad she couldn't see the beauty around her, but if she couldn't, it was her problem.
Not his.
Emma lurched to her feet. Jamming her parasol and bag under one arm, she pushed past him into the aisle. "Let's go."
Her boot heels clicked rapid-fire along the floor, then thudded onto the dirt street.
Larence sighed wearily. Forcing a smile he should have felt but didn't, he grabbed his valise and followed her out.
"Hurry up!" she hollered.
He stared after her in awe. She was about ten feet in front of him, and she was moving. Fast. Her back ramrod-straight, her nose in the air, her feet and skirt hem obliterated by a cloud of dust, she looked like a
98
Kristin Hannah
general headed onto the battlefield. There was no hint that she was uncomfortable—and she had to be downright sweaty under all those layers of wool.
Suddenly she stumbled, clutched her side. The parasol wedged beneath her arm wobbled precariously, tilted.
"Emma!" He surged forward as fast as his bad leg allowed. He wasn't fast enough. Before he could reach her, she was off again, striding hell-bent toward the walkway's meager shade.
He hurried along behind her, listening to the rasping, broken tenor of her breathing. At the covered sidewalk, she bent in half like a broken doll, clutching her sides. Her satchel thunked to the ground.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of running, Lar-ence finally reached her. ' 'Are you all right?"
She took another gasping, wheezing breath, then slowly grabbed her bag and drew herself erect. She looked up at him, and there was spiritless blue fire in her eyes that chilled him to the bone. "Let's go."
She rejammed her parasol under her arm and forced a path through the other shoppers. He watched her barrel through the makeshift marketplace and felt a sharp stab of sadness for her. Nothing caught her attention. In fact, he doubted if she even noticed the people she was plowing through to get to her destination.
Oh, well, he thought with a shrug. He couldn't change her.
But she wouldn't change him, either. This was his adventure, and he was going to enjoy it.
On that cheerful thought, he shoved his free hand in his pocket. Whistling softly, happily, he ambled lazily down the wide, shady pathway.
"Larence ..." His name, buried in an impatient
THE ENCHANTMENT
99
huff, was followed by the unmistakable tapping of her foot. Larence listened to the ra-ta-ta-tat and smiled, casting a surreptitious glance to where she was standing. Her foot tapped ceaselessly, creating a cloud of dust around her high-buttoned walking boots and black skirt.
Whistling a bit louder, he squatted down beside an old Indian woman and admired her handiwork.
Emma stopped tapping and started stomping. "I'd like to find Stanton sometime this century," she grumbled.
Larence handed the woman a coin and pushed to a stand. When he reached Emma, he flashed her an innocent smile and offered her his arm. She took it with obvious reluctance, and together, they started across the street.
His smile turned into an eager grin as he gazed at the adobe church that had presided over this square for nearly two hundred years. White crosses glinted in the warm April sun. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he stepped up his pace. Beside him, he was dimly aware of Emmaline wheezing and hacking at the dust his feet churned up. He knew he should slow down, make it easier on her, but he didn't want to. Not this time. Just this once, he wanted—needed—to be selfish.
With each step, his excitement grew. Any minute, Stanton would come around that corner, and the adventure would really and truly begin. Any minute—
I'll get my money back. It was that thought—and that thought alone—which kept Emmaline from complaining about Larence's world-record pace. Head down, fingers curled tightly around his forearm, she struggled to match him step for dust-billowing
Not his.
Emma lurched to her feet. Jamming her parasol and bag under one arm, she pushed past him into the aisle. "Let's go."
Her boot heels clicked rapid-fire along the floor, then thudded onto the dirt street.
Larence sighed wearily. Forcing a smile he should have felt but didn't, he grabbed his valise and followed her out.
"Hurry up!" she hollered.
He stared after her in awe. She was about ten feet in front of him, and she was moving. Fast. Her back ramrod-straight, her nose in the air, her feet and skirt hem obliterated by a cloud of dust, she looked like a
98
Kristin Hannah
general headed onto the battlefield. There was no hint that she was uncomfortable—and she had to be downright sweaty under all those layers of wool.
Suddenly she stumbled, clutched her side. The parasol wedged beneath her arm wobbled precariously, tilted.
"Emma!" He surged forward as fast as his bad leg allowed. He wasn't fast enough. Before he could reach her, she was off again, striding hell-bent toward the walkway's meager shade.
He hurried along behind her, listening to the rasping, broken tenor of her breathing. At the covered sidewalk, she bent in half like a broken doll, clutching her sides. Her satchel thunked to the ground.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of running, Lar-ence finally reached her. ' 'Are you all right?"
She took another gasping, wheezing breath, then slowly grabbed her bag and drew herself erect. She looked up at him, and there was spiritless blue fire in her eyes that chilled him to the bone. "Let's go."
She rejammed her parasol under her arm and forced a path through the other shoppers. He watched her barrel through the makeshift marketplace and felt a sharp stab of sadness for her. Nothing caught her attention. In fact, he doubted if she even noticed the people she was plowing through to get to her destination.
Oh, well, he thought with a shrug. He couldn't change her.
But she wouldn't change him, either. This was his adventure, and he was going to enjoy it.
On that cheerful thought, he shoved his free hand in his pocket. Whistling softly, happily, he ambled lazily down the wide, shady pathway.
"Larence ..." His name, buried in an impatient
THE ENCHANTMENT
99
huff, was followed by the unmistakable tapping of her foot. Larence listened to the ra-ta-ta-tat and smiled, casting a surreptitious glance to where she was standing. Her foot tapped ceaselessly, creating a cloud of dust around her high-buttoned walking boots and black skirt.
Whistling a bit louder, he squatted down beside an old Indian woman and admired her handiwork.
Emma stopped tapping and started stomping. "I'd like to find Stanton sometime this century," she grumbled.
Larence handed the woman a coin and pushed to a stand. When he reached Emma, he flashed her an innocent smile and offered her his arm. She took it with obvious reluctance, and together, they started across the street.
His smile turned into an eager grin as he gazed at the adobe church that had presided over this square for nearly two hundred years. White crosses glinted in the warm April sun. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he stepped up his pace. Beside him, he was dimly aware of Emmaline wheezing and hacking at the dust his feet churned up. He knew he should slow down, make it easier on her, but he didn't want to. Not this time. Just this once, he wanted—needed—to be selfish.
With each step, his excitement grew. Any minute, Stanton would come around that corner, and the adventure would really and truly begin. Any minute—
I'll get my money back. It was that thought—and that thought alone—which kept Emmaline from complaining about Larence's world-record pace. Head down, fingers curled tightly around his forearm, she struggled to match him step for dust-billowing
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