Page 3 of Wagon Train Hope
“I thought we’d take back some to share,” Walt spoke in his mildest tone as he picked berries and dropped them into his pan.
“I am. I will.” To his credit, Cecil did manage to put berries in his container.
They picked in relative silence apart from the sound of carefree birds, the drone of insects, and the plop of berries landing in the pots.
And—
His hands stilled at the soft thud of a footfall. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He looked for Cecil, but he was out of sight. Nerves twitching and muscles tensing, he turned.
Irene.
His breath exploded from his lungs. “You could get yourself shot sneaking up on people.” He meant to keep his tone mild, but a growl edged into his words.
She planted her hands on her hips and laughed. “Whatcha gonna shoot me with?”
He didn’t shift his gaze. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of looking toward his horse and admitting by a glance—that his rifle was out of reach. Nor would he stoop to pointing out that he was bigger and stronger than she and could harm her without a gun if he so chose. ’Cause it was something he’d never do.
Her blue eyes—the color of a morning sky drenched in dew and sunshine?—
He muffled a grunt and resisted the urge to bang his fist to his forehead. What was wrong with him? Eyes were eyes. Color was color.
Her gaze—the color of her eyes unnoteworthy—slipped past him and widened. “Raspberries. Yum.”
Her footsteps thumped over the ground, and she elbowed by to where the berries were thickest and began plucking them from the bushes, popping a handful into her mouth.
“Yummy! They’re good, aren’t they?” She put two in the pot and three in her mouth.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Three berries went from his fingers into the pot.
Her hand stalled at the bushes, and she stared at him. Blue eyes. Red, berry-stained lips—Enough!
He picked a berry and dropped it on top of the others.
“You haven’t tasted one?” The simple question rang with disbelief and a good dose of criticism.
“I plan to take them back to the others.”
“Walt.” His name sounded like an order. “Open your mouth.”
“I will not.” He pressed his lips tight.
“Oh, really?” She leaned close. “What if I told you”—she glanced to the right and then the left and lowered her voice—“we aren’t alone?”
Had he heard her correctly? “What?”
She popped a plump red berry into his mouth, her fingers teasing his lips as she pulled back. “We aren’t alone. Cecil is nearby. Now eat it.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” The juice exploded with a burst of pleasure. He tried and failed to keep his eyes from widening.
“Nope. None at all. Was it good?”
“Yes, of course.” Sweet and tart at the same time. And he meant the berry, nothing else.
A chortle from Cecil let Walt know his brother had seen it all, or at least enough to know Walt had been hornswoggled.
“Now, let’s get picking berries.” He turned back to the bushes. One berry, two, three, drop them in the pan. He’d forget Irene’s annoying presence, making him think things he didn’t want to except?—
Except she hadn’t brought a container and clung close to his side, reaching over his arm to drop her berries in his pan.
