Pamela Morsi Read Online Free Page B

meadow. Closer, a big grasshopper whirred in the tall grass.
    The cornfield was almost within shouting range ofthe house, but the rocky ridge paths that skirted the water’s edge made the traveling route from one point to the other three times the distance. The high land next to the river was surrounded by dense woods and reed-thick backwash marshes. The cold, clear water bred fish and fowl in abundance. That had apparently held a keen attraction to his mother’s ancestor, the old Scotsman, who had settled upon the land over a hundred years ago.
    Glancing around the homestead where five generations of his family had been born, Moss thought about the old Scotsman. He had
chosen
this place to live. All Moss’s life, he’d craved the same opportunity, to choose his own place to make his own mark. The last thing that he’d wanted was simply to live out some destiny that had been forced upon him. A destiny some lying Jezebel had forced upon him.
    The barn, like the rest of the buildings on his place, had been constructed before the war. Aged and sagging now, it could hardly manage to keep the weather out. The pens and split-rail enclosures were weak and rotted. Red Tex and the mule stayed within their confinement only by force of habit.
    Moss had not spent money or time on a new barn or new fences. He was leaving this place. He was leaving it all behind. He was going west. As he awaited his opportunity, he neglected his farm. Only the essential tasks were accomplished; all his profits were hoarded and stored.
    Moss unhitched the mule and casually surveyed his surroundings. They did not look like fields and farm capable of supporting eight people. They looked poor. They were poor. The sack of coin stowed away in the strongbox beneath his bed notwithstanding, the placewas kept no better than a sharecropper’s hovel.
    He shook his head. He would have thought that a scheming Jezebel determined to force a man to marry her would have at least picked a fellow who appeared prosperous. Of course, maybe this dreary place seemed familiar. Certainly the poor, rocky scratches that her father had farmed looked no better. He recalled with some displeasure how cheerful and pleased she was at the wedding. Perhaps the woman was just not quite right in the head. That would explain a lot.
    Moss snorted in disgust. That would just top it all, he decided. Not only was he saddled with a woman he didn’t know and her whole hungry family, she was probably teched to boot.
    When he finished with the mule, Moss rubbed down Red Tex carefully and adoringly. The big red horse was the living symbol of all that Moss wanted and all that he dreamed about. He was a Texas horse, bred for wide plains and working cattle. He was tangible proof of the commitment to go west. Moss loved him.
    The horse had been run hard that day, hard enough to lather. And then he’d been left to stand while Moss had cursed and kicked rocks. He deserved a bit of attention and some good treatment. It sure wasn’t the horse’s fault that that no-account lying woman had slithered in and ruined his life. Lingering over the task, he thought once more of his lawfully wedded wife, and it drew his mouth into one thin line of displeasure. He thought of her damp clothes against her body. He thought of her arms so lovingly wrapped around his old hunting dog. Grimly, he thought of the matrimonial trap he had fallen into.
    “If she’s so dang fond of that old hound, maybe I’llhave her sleep under the porch with him,” he boasted to Red Tex unkindly.
    Once the horse was clean and relaxed, Moss gave him a bucket full of oats and headed for the cabin. He had to give Uncle Jeptha the news, though he dreaded it like the plague. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to anyone. But the subject couldn’t be avoided She and her family would be showing up before supper. Moss couldn’t just allow them to arrive unexpected. He had to tell