Page 89 of Montana Groom of Convenience
“And leave you out here dealing with this? No, indeed.” He grabbed her hand and hurried her back to the trail. “Go ahead. I’ll follow.”
It was comforting to have him behind her, knowing he would come to her rescue if she needed it. Of course, she wouldn’t. Like she said, they’d done this every year with only her to help Father.
Still, it was nice to have him with her.
They finished one side as far as the road.
Father limped back to the house. “We’ll start here. ’Tis most important to get the grass burned off close to the house.” He glanced at the sky. “’Twill be good if the rain holds off until we finish.” He began the process again.
Carly checked on Jill and found her playing with the kitten. She returned to the task, following Father while Sawyer brought up the rear. Twice, she stomped out little flames near the buildings and once brushed a glowing ember off her skirts.
The wind picked up, tugging her skirts to the side.She smelled the approaching rain and lifted her face to the sky, her eyes closed as she reveled in the scents—dampness and smoke. An odd contrast.
Acrid smoke blew toward him.Flames danced and cavorted, orange and yellow bits of insanity. Sawyer shuddered and turned to watch Carly, smiling at the way she moved so gracefully along the road, pausing here to kick at a rock, there to smile at a flower, chasing after the fires that caught in areas they weren’t planning to burn.
He was grateful for the enjoyment she provided. It helped him ignore the fear that coiled around his heart every time he saw flames racing in a line. Such a sight always brought the memory of flames licking up the wall of their house, the sound of his pa’s cries echoing in his ears.
The wind jerked at his hat, and he pulled it tighter to his head. He turned his attention back to the fire crackling at his side. He knew this had to be done but wished it could be otherwise. An ember caught in the wind and flew toward the barn. He chased it and stomped it out, making sure there were no other areas catching fire before he left.
Carly’s skirts billowed out and fanned toward the fire, the hem of her garment waving over the orange flames. His lungs spasmed. It was only an illusion that made him think the skirts engulfed the fire.
The wind shifted. Her dress fell around her legs.The orange still clung to the hem. He shook his head. Blinked his eyes. Willed away the sight.
But it would not be dismissed. It wasn’t his imagination. She was on fire.
He couldn’t move. It was just like the day his ma and Johnny died, and he stood rooted to the spot. Doing nothing.
The flames spread up the fabric. She strode forward, oblivious to her danger.
He would not lose her. He would not stand by and do nothing. His legs felt like thick posts, but he forced them to move. He broke into a run. Don’t call her name. Don’t make her turn. The movement would swirl her skirts around her, spreading the flames.
He jumped over the charred grass and caught her around the middle, slapping the damp gunnysack against her skirts.
“Sawyer, what are you doing?” She tried to squirm around.
“Don’t move. Your skirt is on fire.” The orange turned to black. Still, he beat at her skirt. Spent at last, he sank to the ground, pulling her down with him, holding her on his lap, his arms around her, his face pressed to the side of her head.
She touched his cheek. “Thank you. I didn’t notice.”
He leaned back and stared at her. “Why are you wearing a dress?” She always wore trousers when she was outdoors. But not today. Why not today? “Trousers wouldn’t have blown into the flames.” Why? Why?
She ducked her head so he couldn’t see her face. “I thought if I prettied up, you might notice me.”
Notice her? If she only knew. But why did she seekhis attention? He caught her chin and tipped her head toward him so he could see her expression.
She kept her eyelids lowered, hiding her eyes.
“Why would you think such a thing?”
Her eyes came to his. Wide, full of uncertainty. “Father says I should dress like a woman.” She made a dismissive sound. “Yet he wants me to work like a son.”
“There’s more to it than that.” She’d dealt with her father’s demands for years.
“Well, if you must know, Bart said I should pretty up.”
Her old beau who only wanted the ranch? Why would Bart’s opinion matter so much? “I think we both know he isn’t worth your consideration.”
She nodded and studied the front of his shirt.
