Margaret Brownley Read Online Free

forward.  Standing upright, she stared down in astonishment at her clothing.
    Cripes! She was dressed like an Indian!
    She ran her hand along the soft deerskin tunic that fell loosely from her shoulders. It was far too big for her, even with her swollen belly. The shoulder seams fell halfway down her arm, the fringe at the cuffs reached beyond her fingertips.
    She straightened and although the bulk of her abdomen prevented her from seeing her toes or even her feet it was clear to her that the fringe at the hem barely covered her knees. She added indecent exposure to the growing list of things to worry about.
    Not that there was anyone around to see her bare legs. But the room was rather masculine. Extremely masculine. It was the sort of room that made a woman think twice before exposing her limbs or anything else for that matter.
    She tried to remember how she got there. She recalled running down a dark street. Remembered feeling fear and panic—desperation. Then something strange happened; a vision of warmth and softness washed over her.
    Where was she? Whose cabin was this? Her parched mouth soon took precedence over curiosity. She needed a drink of water.
    The room began to spin. Planting her hands firmly on the whiskey barrel that served as a table next to the bed, she waited for the dizziness to pass before venturing to the part of the room that served as a kitchen.
    She found a bucket of water and ladled some into a tin cup. The water was fresh and tasted cool and sweet in her mouth. Drinking her fill, she took in her surroundings with renewed interest.
    The single room of the cabin was no more than ten feet by twenty feet long. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall. A crude wooden table flanked by two birch wood chairs served as the only barrier between the kitchen and the rest of the living quarters. A bearskin was centered in the middle of the dirt floor.
    Her gaze lingered on the dark fur rug for a moment before she perused the rest of the room.
    Without warning, the door flew open revealing a tall bearded man holding a blood-covered knife. Once again she feared for her life.
    *****
    Logan St. John gave the woman a quick once-over, surprised to see her on her feet. “What are you doing out of bed?”
    His voice was rough, sharp, a deep bass designed for wild towns and rugged country, not for polite society. He was a loner, not used to having company. Not since…
    The name that came to mind startled him. Silently, he cursed the woman. How dare she intrude into his life? Making him remember things he didn’t want to remember, think thoughts no man should have to think. The sooner the woman had recovered and was on her way, the sooner he could forget the past and concentrate on getting his leg back to normal so he could head up north to set his traps before it was too late.
    He slammed the door shut behind him. It was already too late! Winter was the time to trap beavers when furs were thick and colors rich. That’s when they brought the best prices.
    Apparently thinking the anger on his face was directed at her, the woman shrank back, pressing herself against the cook stove.
    He limped toward her and stopped in front of the table. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light inside the cabin. Seeing her clearly now, he was ill-prepared for the fetching way his fringed buckskin shirt looked on her. He let his startled gaze drop to the unlaced neckline that had fallen in such a way as to reveal one arresting white shoulder. The shirt was large enough to hide the fullness of her waist and short enough to reveal her bare legs and feet.
    Gasping softly she tugged at the sleeve and pulled it back over her shoulder, but her attempts at modesty only went so far. And hard as she tried, there was nothing much she could do about her lower limbs.
    He was sorely tempted to throw a blanket around her, cover her up so he didn’t have to be subjected to so much feminine flesh, but she was so wide-eyed with fear, he thought