Page 27 of Wagon Train Hope
He followed her through the trees. She moved quietly, barely disturbing the leaves on either side. At the bank, they walked side by side upstream. He didn’t need to ask what she was doing because he was doing the same thing—looking for a wildlife trail through the brush.
“There.” She pointed.
He’d seen it too, the narrow strip of flattened grass, beaten down by hooves and paws. “We’d do better at dawn or dusk.”
“Or we could be patient.” She perched on a fallen tree, her rifle resting across her knees.
He followed her. “You don’t strike me as the patient sort.” He sat on the same log, its narrowness forcing him to sit close enough to press his leg to hers.
“Guess it shows how little you know of me.”
“That’s so. Guess I could say the same. You know little about me.” Why had he said that? It sounded like he invited her—beggedher—to ask questions and learn about him.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Do you want it to be?” What was in the air that had him saying things he wouldn’t have if he’d given it a moment’s thought?
She gave him an unblinking study for three heartbeats, blinked, and then grinned. “I accept your challenge.”
“Very well.” If she wanted to play a game, he’d go along. “What’s my favorite color?” A dumb question, but he kept being drawn to her eyes, blue as a June morning.
“That’s easy. Red.”
“Nope. Blue.” Like your eyes. “Why would you say red?”
“Because your saddle blanket is mostly red.”
“So it is. Yours is mostly black and gray.” A geometric pattern. “Does that mean one of those is your favorite color?”
Her attention was on the almost invisible trail. “I wouldn’t call them colors. Nope. I like bright flower colors. Like yellow sunflowers.” She tipped her chin and faced him. “Or the red of roses.” Her gaze bored into his. “The blue of bluebells.”
Neither of them looked away as the water rippled by, singing a calming song, and leaves whispered their rustling accompaniment. A bird sang three clear notes.
She lifted her gaze to the trees. “I’d say your favorite bird is a hawk or eagle.”
“Wrong. It’s the lark.” The familiar trill of one rang out again. “Is yours the eagle?”
A fitting bird for her fierce independence.
Her gaze returned to his and stayed. “I prefer a songbird.” She left it there, challenging him to guess the bird she had in mind.
Then he laughed. “The lark!”
She nodded. “It has been since I was young. Every year, I’d go out to the meadow near our woods and wait for the first lark announcing winter was over.” Sweetness filled her eyes as she recalled those days. “I’d run home and tell Pa I’d heard my first lark, and he’d say a lark is like good poetry.”
“I like that. Do you know any poems about larks?”
Her eyes bright, she nodded. “I know one by a famous author.” She folded her hands, crossed her legs at her ankles, and drew in a deep breath. “‘When spring upon us doth embark, it’s welcomed by the song of a lark. Winter is gone for another season. Joy and celebration are the reason. That the lark doth sing so sweet and clear. And why we find the bird so dear.’” Guileless blue eyes held his as she recited.
“That’s nice. Who is the famous poet? Might I know of him or her?”
A spark of something he couldn’t identify silvered her irises. “You might know her. It’s I. Woods.”
“I. Woods.” He scratched his ear. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”
She jabbed him in the ribs. “Come on. Give it a little thought.”
A little thought? How was he supposed to think about it when he knew?—
