Christine Dorsey Read Online Free Page B

was a Rebel.
    Shaking her head, Samantha stuffed the paper back into the pocket. That’s when her fingers encountered something cold and smooth. She pulled out the frame, turning it over carefully in her hands. Scrolling gold flowers framed maroon etched velvet. And in the center was an oval daguerreotype. Of a man, a woman, and a young boy. They all looked so beautiful and so happy.
    Lydia. Somehow Samantha knew the woman had to be Lydia. She had dark hair and eyes, and a face that shone with love for the man beside her. But that meant the man was... Samantha swallowed. The man in the daguerreotype was well dressed and clean, and handsome, nothing like the—
    “What in the hell are you doing with that?”
    Samantha squealed and her gaze flew to the stranger, who now leaned on one elbow, looking very much awake and very fierce.

 Chapter Two
     
    S he couldn’t answer, only stared at the stranger—no, Jacob Morgan, she knew his name now—and clutched the daguerreotype tighter. He gazed at her through narrowed eyes, and Samantha wondered how she could ever have thought them sad. Angry was the only word that came to mind.
    He shifted, the brackets around his mouth deepening in pain, and Samantha flattened herself against the stall. Her eyes strayed to the musket still leaning in the corner and her heart sank as she realized it was out of reach. Carelessly she’d placed the gun on the other side of him. He could seize it easily.
    Samantha’s gaze flew back to his face to see if he was aware of it, but he wasn’t looking at the musket. Though somewhat relieved, Samantha now realized he probably wouldn’t need it to hurt her. Even wounded, he possessed a strength she couldn’t match. His shoulders were broad, and though he was lean, the stark white sheeting wrapped around his torso emphasized his muscular build.
    But at the moment he didn’t seem bent on hurting her. He looked at her now, a frown furrowing the brow she’d soothed with cooling cloths. “Who are you?” he demanded in a voice with just a hint of a drawl.
    “S—Samantha Lowery.”
    He seemed not to understand her, his head cocking slightly to the side. A lock of hair, shining gold in the lantern light, fell over his forehead. Samantha leaned forward to brush it back, jerking away when she realized what she’d almost done. This man wasn’t Will, for heaven’s sake.
    He didn’t seem to notice her actions as he continued to study her, an expression on his face as if he didn’t comprehend what was going on.
    He was getting weaker.
    His wound had opened again, and his eyelids were drooping. He took a deep breath, keeping his focus on Samantha with difficulty. “What happened to me?”
    “You were shot.”
    “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said before falling back onto the straw-covered floor.
    Samantha scurried to her feet, staying as far from him as she could. He swallowed, and Samantha watched the muscles in his neck as she inched back toward the gun. She reached behind her with the hand not clutching his daguerreotype. Her fingers just grazed the muzzle when he spoke again. Samantha jumped and knocked the gun over.
    “May I have my picture?”
    Samantha looked down at the frame she’d forgotten she held. Her heart beat faster than a midsummer rainstorm as she moved toward him. Quickly, hoping he wouldn’t grab her, she leaned over, dropping the picture on his lower chest. His hand came up and covered it, nearly hiding it from view.
    “Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper, and Samantha ignored them as she dove for the musket. She shouldered it and turned, aiming toward the man lying in the straw but he didn’t notice. He was asleep or unconscious, Samantha couldn’t tell for sure.
    Taking a deep breath, Samantha lowered the gun and leaned against the rough wood. She tried calming herself. “It’s over. He didn’t hurt you,” she mumbled, reassured. She’d felt vulnerable, hardly a new feeling, but with him it was more