Anna Finch and the Hired Gun Read Free Page A

lined the border between her home and the Beck property and fell to her knees. A wave of nausea hit, and she lost the remains of her hurried, predawn breakfast.
    How long she remained kneeling, Anna couldn’t say. At some point she turned to prayer, though her pleadings felt as dry and dusty as the banks of the spring where she’d spent her morning.
    When she could manage it, Anna rose and dusted off her trousers, then swiped at her mouth with the back of her sleeve. Another wave of nausea chased her as she darted across the gap between the stables and the kitchen. By the time she reached the door, however, the feeling had subsided.
    Hurriedly stabbing hairpins into her hopelessly ruined coiffure, she slipped into the kitchen and bolted for the back staircase.
    “Anna Finch.”
    Papa
. She froze, unable even to respond. Her father called her name again, and Anna slowly turned to see him standing in the kitchen entrance. His glower made her feel half her age.
    “Come with me,” he said shortly, turning and marching down the corridor. Anna followed helplessly.
    Her father entered the library, leaving the door open. Anna stalled in the doorway, knowing that as soon as this conversation began, her freedom ended. She squared her shoulders and breathed aquick reminder to herself that she was a modern woman with no desire to have her father treat her like a child. Then she stepped into the room.
    And instantly the woman gave way to the girl, and Anna Finch lost all interest in her personal declaration of independence. Tucking what she could of her hair back into place, she ran sweaty palms over the garments she now wished she’d never donned.
    As if her thoughts paraded before her, irritation tightened her father’s usually kind face. “Shut the door,” he commanded.
    She managed it on the second try. The bindings holding her chest flat began to slip, and Anna pressed her arm to her side to avert disaster. At least this disaster.
    “Sit down.”
    Anna considered taking the seat nearest the door should the need to escape overwhelm her. She made a poor attempt at removing any sign of unease from her expression.
I am a grown woman. A woman who shot a man
.
    “Sit,” her father repeated as his gaze slid the length of her with obvious disdain.
    “Yes, Papa.” Anna sank to the edge of the chair nearest Papa’s desk and tried to still her shaking knees as she noticed her borrowed boots had tracked a mixture of mud and leaves across the carpet. At least she hadn’t brought any of the man’s blood with her.
    Another wave of nausea bubbled up inside her, but Anna bit back on it until it passed. In its place came the urge to unburden herself to Papa. To tell him the horrible events of the morning and ask—no,
beg
—him to make them go away. To right the wrong of shooting a man, whether innocent or not.
    But she couldn’t do it. He already thought so poorly of her. Given his demeanor, he likely expected she’d done much worse.
    When finally his stare met hers, Papa seemed ready to speak, but then he looked away and studied something on the opposite wall. Anna swiveled to follow his gaze and saw the portrait on which his attention rested.
    Five young ladies in their best Sunday dresses smiled back at her. Finding herself in the portrait was easy. She was the smallest of the group and the only one who refused to smile. Not that the casual onlooker would notice, for the artist, who’d earned a hefty commission for commemorating the gathering of the Finch girls, had taken the liberty of painting a smile on her anyway.
    Slowly Anna became aware of her father’s silence, a silence that stretched far and deep into the chasm between them. Though she longed to find the easy banter that had rarely failed her where Papa was concerned, no words would come.
    Anna watched the light glint off the heavy gold chain that attached her father’s pocket watch to his vest button and wondered if the ticking was as quick as her heartbeat. Her