Read Lorraine Heath for Free Online Page B

see it over the congregation. Then he lowered it, stood, and walked out of the church empty-handed.
    Meg balled her hands in her lap, refusing to feel guilty about not having returned to his farm as she’d promised. Clay was a man without honor, and as such, he deserved no respect.
    The pouch, however, was another matter. She could no longer see it, but knowing that he’d brought it for her and left it—whatever it held—on the last pew made her feel as though she were sitting on a cactus. She’d never squirmed so much in her life.
    When Reverend Baxter finally signaled her to begin the final hymn, her hands itched to touch the canvas bag instead of the organ keys. She’d never realized how slowly people walked from the church. Did she always play this hymn three times before the church was empty?
    When the only movements within the sanctuary were the dust motes waltzing in the sunlight, Meg rose from the bench, walked down the steps from the dais, strolled as calmly as she could to the last pew, and slid onto the hardwood bench.
    With feathery touches, she stroked the silken threads she had embroidered to form Kirk’s initials in the pouch. Lifting the soiled flap, she peered inside the canvas bag, then poured the contents onto the bench. Gunpowder overpowered the scent of honeysuckle.
    Ignoring the rolled paper, she gathered the letters together, pressed them against her bosom, and wept. An immense grief swept over her, tearing open the wounds of her heart, wounds she thought had begun to heal.
    Sometimes, she felt as though whatever weaponry had struck Kirk down had sent its death knell across the miles to Texas and embedded its anguish in her heart.
    Clutching the canvas bag, her palms sweating, Meg guided the chestnut mare through the trees that bordered the river. Within her heart, molten rage simmered because Clay had possession of Kirk’s pouch and her letters these many months and hadn’t returned them to her. Her hatred intensified as she considered the possibility that he may have read the letters, read the intimate words she meant to share only with her husband.
    Determined to get answers, she urged her horse toward the bend in the river where Lucian had told her she’d find Clay. She ducked beneath a low branch, the sweat on her palms increasing.
    She drew her horse to a halt beneath the branches of another tree. Ensconced in shadows, she forgot her anger as she took in the scene unfolding before her.
    Deep and vibrant, Clay’s laughter rumbled as he stood in the brown river, the gently flowing water lapping at his hips. His back was to her, but with his clothes drenched and plastered to his body, she could see that he was extremely slender; she could even detect the barest rippling of his muscles beneath his shirt as he scooped the water and tossed it toward his brothers. The twins had discarded their shirts, and their bare shoulders displayed a host of freckles.
    Without warning, they yelled and lunged for Clay. The force of their combined assault took him under the water. The twins emerged first, holding their stomachs and throwing their heads back to send their guffaws toward the blue sky above. Clay came up, sputtering, shaking his head, and sending a spray of water toward his brothers. Then moving quickly, he plucked one boy out of the water.
    Meg gasped. The child was as naked as a blue jay. She knew she should avert her gaze, but she hadn’t seen anyone so enjoy life in years.
    Clay tossed the boy in the water. Then, laughing, he turned to his other brother. Taunting the boy, he tried to wave him nearer. When the boy refused to approach, Clay plunged under the water. The boy screamed as he came out of the water, cradled in his brother’s arms. Then he hollered louder and struggled harder. “Put me down!”
    “Not until you say I won!” Clay yelled.
    “Gawd Almighty! She’s watchin’ us!”
    Clay spun around, the naked boy dangling in his arms and kicking. His broad smile disappeared like