Jo Goodman Read Online Free

glimpse of Huntress.
    It said something about Jonna Remington's reputation that men found their eyes trying to pierce the thick wall of fog for the curve of the horizon. There was no way the owner of the Remington line could be certain her ship would appear in the next hour or the next day, but the fact that she was waiting told others she expected it to be sooner than later. The timetable, they knew, was one Jonna kept in her head, along with a plethora of other facts and figures, of debits and credits, of manifests and maritime laws. Not a man working the harbor that morning doubted that Jonna Remington had plotted her flagship's course and anticipated the vessel's arrival within the accuracy of a heartbeat. In a business that was fraught with risk, things that could be plotted and planned were never left to chance.
    Jonna turned only once to survey the gathering at her back. They were careful to keep their distance, a sign of their respect but also an acknowledgment of Jonna's natural aloofness. She was not unapproachable but neither was she casually available. Her mien was sober and steady, even dispassionate, and her manner was straightforward. She worked hard and she expected others to do the same. She never said as much; it was there by example. Men in her employ who did not understand that were quickly given their leave. Jonna Remington did not suffer fools in any fashion.
    Her brief study of the crowd had laid a blanket of silence over it. To a man they felt they were shirking their duty by waiting for Huntress. This guilt didn't move them to go back to their work, but they were aware of their discomfort now where they hadn't been a moment before. A few of them, in a paltry show of defiance, stared back hard at her. If she knew they were doing it, she remained unmoved.
    Another biting breeze swept over the dock. Jonna felt her bonnet lift again, and the purple satin bow caught her under the neck. This time she unfastened the ribbon rather than hold the hat to her head. The wind tore at the bonnet as soon as it was loosened, and Jonna barely managed to keep it in hand. She held it in front of her, letting the salt spray sting her unprotected face and whip at her hair.
    She had had no patience with having her hair dressed that morning. Instead of fashionable ringlets, she'd told the maid to simply tie it back and tuck it into a bun. The wind made short work of the maid's efforts. The anchoring pins lost their moorings as glossy black tendrils slipped free. Jonna's hair unfurled and was beaten back. In moments it came to define the invisible currents of air that lifted it behind her.
    Jonna had an urge to glance over her shoulder. Had anyone noticed, or were the men still watching for the ship? With an uncharacteristic consideration of feminine vanity she wondered which of the two possibilities would be more insulting. She quelled the impulse to look around and clutched her bonnet tighter.
    It wasn't that she was unused to being stared at. She was. But it had been her experience that it was for reasons not to be regarded as truly flattering. The first thing that usually struck people was her height. At just three inches under six feet she was taller than all the women of her acquaintance and stood eye to eye with most men. If her height went unremarked—and truly, she thought, why did people think they had the right to make some comment on it, or more to the point, think that she should accept their observations graciously—then something was said about her eyes.
    Why, they're purple, my dear. How very unusual. Actually they were violet, but when someone was visibly caught off guard by the odd coloring, "purple" was the word that came quickly to mind and was voiced. To make it more maddening, her eyes seemed too large for her face and did not remain a constant hue but captured shades of blue and gray depending on the predominant colors of her costume. Until she had removed her bonnet and its purple ribbon, Jonna had