Page 28 of Wagon Train Hope
It hit him like a blast of heated air. “You? It’s you!” He jabbed her back as they laughed together.
“I’m a poet, but you didn’t know it.” A pointed pause as she raised a brow. “But my feet show it. They’re longfellows.”
It took a heartbeat for him to comprehend her play on words, and then amusement widened his grin and dipped into the depths of his heart. “Did you just make that up?”
“No. Pa said it to me sometimes when I told him one of my poems.”
“You have more?”
“Hundreds.” She waved airily.
“Let’s hear them.”
“Nope. I’m supposed to be guessing things about you. Let’s see. Your favorite food is…” She tapped her chin, her gaze on the distance as she considered her answer. “Deer steak.”
“Close enough. And yours is…hmm.” He stared into the bushes as he thought. “I’d say you have a weakness for fresh biscuits.” He’d seen her eat four at supper and eye the supply saved for the noon meal.
“Good guess.”
“It wasn’t a guess. It was an observation.”
“Huh? Does that mean you’ve been watching me?” Her eyes flashed a challenge.
“Just means I’m observant and have learned lots of things about you.”
“Really? Like what?”
“You make good biscuits. Maybe because you like eating them.” On more than one occasion, he’d watched her chopping in lard and adding water a bit at a time until she had the dough at the desired consistency. A strand of hair often flipped across her cheek as she kneaded the dough. She either blew it out of her way or brushed it aside with her wrist. She cut the dough into uniform squares and baked them in the portable oven the women set up almost every evening. The biscuits baked golden and tender. Of course, all the women made good biscuits. But hers were the best, and he always ate more’n his share. Not that anyone commented. They were all hungry after a long day of travel, so his appetite was normal.
“Thank you for saying they’re good. Though Angela makes the best biscuits.”
He didn’t agree but left it at that. “You’re protective of your family.” She kept an eye on Bertie and was quick to assist him when he needed it. As well, she jumped to help her ma. Even helped Hazel with the baby.
“Yes, I am.” Her voice rang with determination…conviction.
He leaned closer and touched his finger to her chin.
Her gaze riveted to his. She never once blinked or dipped her eyes.
“I also think you’ve often felt overlooked by your family.” During her growing-up years, her parents had been consumed with Bertie and the demands of life and had, no doubt, learned she was capable of taking care of herself.
She blinked, opened her eyes, widened them. It was silent agreement whether or not she realized it or admitted it. And then she drew back. “I don’t need or want special attention.”
He lowered his hand. Before she withdrew further, hepatted her shoulder. “I know you don’t, but maybe you deserve it.” Maybe he could give it to her.
But did he want to? Getting too involved with her meant running into danger…or did he mean adventure?
He cupped his hand to her shoulder and drew her closer, his attention on her startled eyes, her pink cheeks, her red lips?—
7
Attention? She didn’t need or want attention. What a silly idea. And was he offering? What would it feel like to have someone care for her like Pa had cared for Ma? Like Peter had cared for Hazel?
Her thoughts were more foolish than his offer—if that’s what it was.
She shrugged his hand off. “We’ll never see any wildlife if we keep talking.” The camp was out of meat, and providing it with more was all that mattered.
Walt drew back and faced away, but not before regret flashed in his expression. Regret for her reaction or his words?
