A Restless Wind Read Free

ride back home.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
         The silence inside the cabin was broken by boot heels that echoed hollowly across the wide planks of the wood floor.  They were unhurried steps, accompanied by the faint, metallic sound of spurs.  Where the woman had stood only minutes before, a man now stood.  He leaned a gray-clad shoulder against the door frame while his gaze thoughtfully followed the path that she had taken.
         The blaze of morning sunlight was full upon him except for that portion of his face which remained shadowed by his hat brim.  It was a strong face with hard masculine lines.  It was a contemplative face at the moment.  The man’s dark brows were drawn into a slight frown as he, too, felt the lure of the past.
         The years had not changed her, he decided.  He recalled much the same expression in those pale blue eyes as they had looked up at him two years ago.
         His own eyes sobered.  He ran one hand along his unshaven jaw and frowned slightly as he took in the details of the porch.  The wisteria had flourished in spite of neglect, twining rampantly around whatever it could find for support.  As had the roses.  The memory of the one who had tended those flowers followed and his eyes changed.  Like stormy skies, they had depths that were unfathomable. 
         Sara had told him of the envelope and its contents.  And she had told him when he should come for it.  He had come here to find that envelope.  He had seen the look on Hetty’s face and he knew that she had found it first.
         He stared southward to the hills where the mists were still clinging, though faintly.  He knew those hills, knew them as well as he knew his own name.  As he stood in the doorway, the wind whispered against him, warm and fragrant and familiar.  And alive with the secrets it held.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 2
     
         “I don’t need a man to speak for me,”  Hetty said as she set a cup on the table and poured hot coffee into it.  “I have my own voice.”
         Her uncle, who was sitting at the table, lifted the cup to his lips, scowled when he found the coffee too hot and set the cup down again.  Zebadiah Parrish was an imposing man past sixty with iron-gray hair and a direct, piercing gaze that was capable of making ranchers and ranch-hands alike quake in their boots.  He fixed his niece with that gaze now.
         “And just where did you learn to express such notions so freely, young woman?  Certainly not in Boston.”
         “Yes.  In Boston,”  Hetty replied as she set his breakfast plate on the table.
         “And did Boston also teach you that it is considered unseemly for a woman to be so outspoken about such things?”  he queried as he unfolded his napkin.
         “Why, Uncle.  Did you think that Boston was going to change me so much?”
         Zebadiah leaned back in his chair and considered his niece.  The truth was, Hetty had always been outspoken.  She had always voiced her opinions straight out.
         “I thought that Boston would-  ”  He frowned as he searched for the right words.
         “Teach me that straightforward expression is reserved for men only?”  she suggested as she set a tin of maple syrup on the table before him.
         He hadn’t meant that.  Not exactly.  Not the way she made it sound.  “I wasn’t meaning that, Hetty.”
         “Then perhaps you are of the opinion that a woman never speaks unless she first asks permission from a man.  To make sure that he approves of her thoughts?”  She was standing at the cupboard, reaching for another plate and she glanced at him over her shoulder.
         “I’d never expect that from you,”  he sighed as he adjusted his napkin in his lap.  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you did learn back East.”