Page 71 of The Promise
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Loralee yawned and curled closer into the warmth of the comforter. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a comfortable bed.Alone. It was downright sinful. A girl could get used to it. She stretched contentedly then let her eyes slowly flicker open.
Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains, dappling the bedclothes in soft light. Heaven. With a blissful sigh, she threw back the covers and sat up, marveling at the fact that the day was hers. Totally hers.Unless Amos Striker arrived. She shivered, her mind conjuring a picture of Corabeth's lifeless body. Not for the first time, she was grateful that Mary was safe with her sister.
She slid out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser in the corner. A small mirror was the room's only adornment. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, then twirled the finished product into a ring around her head. A halo. She smiled at the thought, and fastened her hairpins into place. Almost passable. With a quick smile at the face in the mirror, she reached for her dress, skipping the corset in favor of breathing room. Slightly immodest, but it wasn't as if she had a reputation to ruin.
Loralee laughed; the thought oddly freeing. Finishing the last of her buttons, she peeked under the bed, searching for her shoes, her mind turning to her evening with Patrick Macpherson. The man had no idea how charming he was. A real innocent. And that was a rarity in her line of business to be sure. Men like Patrick Macpherson simply didn't frequent the cribs. Loralee struggled into her boots, wishing she had a button hook.
No, she'd done right to ignore Patrick's obvious interest. A fancy feat of acting if she did say so herself. The boy was smitten all righty. But she couldn't take the chance. Patrick wasn't a one night kinda man, and if she let him… Her hand drifted across her gingham-clad breast, then down across her abdomen, her eyes drifting shut as her imagination took control.
Oh Lordy.
She forced her eyes wide open. Yes siree, she was better off on her own. A man like Patrick Macpherson was the most dangerous kind. Wholly approachable, and completely unobtainable. If she ever had a taste of him, she'd only want more. And that was something she was determined to avoid at all costs. No sense in setting herself up for a fall. No sense at all.
A rap on the door,brought Patrick to hazy consciousness. He opened one eye, the last of a very provocative dream bursting like a soap bubble. "Go away." He sighed and reached for a pillow. Maybe if he covered his head, the knocking would stop, and he could find his way back to dreamland and Loralee.Loralee. He smiled, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his imagination pulsing into high gear.
The knocking continued and Patrick threw the pillow at the door. "Patrick." There was a definite whine in Arless' voice. "You seen Loralee? She promised me breakfast this morning."
"She's sleeping in Michael's room, Arless, just hang onto your drawers. I'm sure she'll be there directly." He snuggled back down into his bed, closing his eyes, picturing Loralee's perfectly formed rear end. It was so soft. So sweet.
"Patrick?" Arless again.
"I told you —" Lord, couldn't a man be left to his own fantasies?
"But, she ain't in there."
He sat up, sleep vanishing in an instant. He ignored his pants, grabbing his rifle instead. If Loralee was in trouble there was no time for niceties. Hopping on one foot, trying to pull on a boot, he reached for the door, almost toppling over when Arless yanked it open.
"False alarm." The Irishman's grin broadened when he saw Patrick's relative state of undress. "She was just in the privy."
Loralee's face appeared in the space above Arless's shoulder, her angelic smile, belying the wicked twinkle in her eye. "Mornin' Patrick. I see you're up and dressed." The head disappeared, but he could hear giggling.
"What are you staring at, Arless?" He scowled at the man. "Haven't you seen a man in his underwear before?"
"Sure have, Patrick. Just never seen anyone turn that color afore. And you ain't even been drinkin'." Arless backed away from the door, leaving it standing open.
Patrick reached for his pants, his dignity hanging on by a thread. "Would somebody please shut the damn door?"
Fifteen minutes later,he emerged from the bedroom, boots in hand. Loralee was dropping batter onto the griddle, the picture of domestic tranquility. His heart quickened at the sight. Ah, sweet Loralee. The whore, the little voice in his head sternly reminded. And he wasn't surprised at all that the voice sounded an awful lot like Owen's.
"Glad to see you're finally up and dressed." She shot him a crooked smile then turned back to her cooking.
Arless was sitting at the table, lost in his own kind of bliss. "She's making griddle cakes."
Patrick pulled on his boots and straddled a chair. "I kinda figured that."
The other man, inhaled deeply and sighed.
"Arless, doesn't Lena cook for you?"
"Not like that she don't." He gestured to a sizzling pan of sausage.
Patrick's mouth watered. "Well, it does smell good." He was rewarded with another of Loralee's smiles. "Where's Pete?"
"Said he was going to feed the stock." Arless' eyes never left the stove.
Patrick was enjoying the view himself, although he was far more interested in the cook than the fare. Loralee expertly flipped the griddle cakes. "If one of you boys will go get him, I think breakfast is about ready."
