Page 39 of Falling for the Cowgirl
Her attention strayed to the pulpit where Father Zieber preached most Sundays. Here she was standing in a church and wondering if she oughta lie. What kind of lowlife had she turned into?
With a huff, she plopped onto the bench and picked up the bodice that matched the skirt. But the tight linen across her chest constricted her, and without another moment of hesitation, she hoisted up her chemise and began unwinding the long strip. The chemise over the top made the process cumbersome, but she couldn’t imagine going the rest of the day and into the night wearing the binding.
She unwound it as fast as she could, but somehow it tangled in the back so that she couldn’t pull the last section free. She considered taking off her chemise, but with the way the linen was wrapped, she was afraid she’d get the undergarment halfway up her head and find herself stuck.
“Holy Saint Peter.” Her skin was overheating from the exertion in the stuffy room. She’d rushed herself, and now she’d gotten into a predicament. Maybe she was gonna have to wind the strip back up and wear it for the rest of the day after all.
The side door creaked, and she gasped, grabbing her bodice and using it to shield her chemise. This time she couldn’t duck down and hide. She couldn’t even run away, not in her state of undress.
As a man slipped silently inside, she immediately recognized the lean frame and muscular body.
“Go away, Jericho,” she hissed. “I’m mad at you and don’t wanna talk to you right now.”
“You’re mad at me?” His voice was tight as he closed the door. “I’m the one with the right to be mad. Not you.”
“You threw the race and let me win.”
“You shouldn’t have been racing to begin with—” As he turned and caught sight of her, his words fell away. In a sweeping glance he took in her state of undress, and his eyes widened.
She spread her bodice farther over her chemise to act like a shield, although it did nothing to cover her very bare arms. Her mind returned to the night she was caught in the bog, when he’d seen her in underdrawers. And the time before that when he’d caught her bathing in the creek. The same question she’d asked the night at the bog taunted her: Why was he always coming across her when she was indecent?
Of course he’d had no way of knowing those other times or now that she was scantily clad.
“I’m changing.” The words came out stiffly. And the second she spoke, she wanted to hit herself over the head for stating so obvious a statement. She tugged on the stuck piece of linen, wishing now that she’d left it in place. “You should go.”
“Couldn’t you find someplace more private? What if I’d been another man?”
“I’m fine. Or I was until you showed up.” She refrained from revealing that someone had already come in the front door.
“You’re not fine, Ivy. You have no sense of decency.” He waved at her and then rapidly looked away.
“I’m decent enough.” She lifted her chin. “At least I didn’t go behind your back to race Roman-style.”
“I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I had to do it.”
“Had to?”
He palmed the back of his neck. “Yes. And I wish I could explain why, but I can’t.”
“Well, explain to me why you have a double standard, why it’s fine and dandy for you to race but you have a fit when I do.”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
She stood and glared. “It ain’t any more dangerous for me than you.”
“If you fell, you’d get hurt easier.”
“And how do you know that?”
“You’re smaller.” He glanced at her but then pressed his lips together.
“Smaller?” She snorted. “What difference does that make?”
“Just finish getting dressed,” he snapped, staring at the simple wooden cross hanging at the front of the church, clearly uncomfortable with her state of immodesty.
She reached behind her back and tugged at the linen strip hanging out from her chemise, but it wouldn’t dislodge.
“Are you almost done?”
