The Beloved Woman Read Free

into a youthful face already tending toward rugged squint lines and creases, thick, wickedly arched eyebrows, eyes the color of new green leaves, and that infernal mustache.
    “I’m unhurt, thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
    Mr. Bingham hung over the side of his seat atop the coach, watching them. “I’m sure sorry about all of this mess, Miss Blue Song.”
    She forced her gaze up to the driver’s. “Are those drovers typical of the men roaming the woods in Cherokee country now?”
    “Yes’m.”
    “My father will send the Lighthorse patrol after them.”
    “Nope,” Justis Gallatin interjected.
    She swiveled her gaze to the man, who was now watching her with a different kind of intensity that made her feel increasingly uncomfortable. His eyes drooped a little at the corners, giving him a sleepy, satiated expression when he smiled. But he wasn’t smiling now—he seemed far from it—and his hooded scrutiny was guarded, perhaps even angry.
    “What do you mean, sir?”
    “There’s no more Cherokee courts. The state of Georgia took over the law a few years ago. I figured your folks wrote you about it.”
    “I read about it in the Philadelphia paper. But myfather said it wasn’t so.” She frowned. “My name’s Katherine—Miss Blue Song. Do you know my family?”
    He hesitated, his wide, generous mouth tightening under the mustache. Then he said, “Your pa sent me to meet you on the road. I’ve been waiting for you the past week.” The green eyes were shuttered now, half closed. “He’s working a new field and couldn’t come himself, but he was a little worried that you’d run into trouble—just like you did.”
    She tilted her head and looked at him curiously. “You’re employed by my father?”
    “No. Friend of his.”
    “Your name is Mr. Gallatin, is that right?”
    “Justis Gallatin.”
    She inched back in wary consideration. “My father wouldn’t send a stranger. This isn’t like him.”
    “Lots of things have changed since you went north.” Abruptly he took the scalpel from her hand. “Never seen anything like it,” he said again. “Swiping at those boys like a cat with one mean claw. Damned good.” He pulled her hand to him, jerked the long tail of his shirt from his trousers, and wiped her bloody fingers.
    Katherine was angered by his familiarity, surprised by the gentleness in his big, lethal hands, and flushed from the thought that her fingers were being cleaned by material that had recently been tucked against his thighs—and more.
    “You obviously share the drovers’ opinion of me,” she said in a crisp but genteel tone. It had taken years of practice at the Presbyterian Academy for Young Ladies to acquire that soft, ice-cold voice.
    He stopped ministering to her fingers and looked up in surprise. “Huh?”
    “You wouldn’t be so forward with a white woman,” she said, pulling her hand away.
    He frowned, sincerely puzzled. “Yes, I would.”
    “Well, that’s honest.”
    Amused despite herself, Katherine pivoted gracefully and climbed back into the coach. Dust puffed around her as she sat. Her heart still thudded painfully from the encounter with the drovers, and she wasn’t in any mood for Mr. Gallatin’s unsettling brand of chivalry.
    “You may ride along behind the coach if you like,” she told him. “And when we arrive at my home, you’ll be welcome to stay for supper.”
    She tried to ignore the anger rising in his face and nodded toward the huge gray horse that waited beside the road. Its gear gleamed with care, and there was gold plating on the bridle. “Close the coach door and go to your mount, sir,” she ordered as calmly as she could.
    “I’m not some hired jerktail you can steer any way you like. I told you, I’m a friend of your pa’s.”
    She raised her chin and stared stubbornly at a speck of peeling paint on the coach’s inner wall. “My father doesn’t have many white friends, and he never mentioned you in his letters.”
    “Be