Page 18 of Fairest of Heart

Penelope’s stomach squeezed. She’d promised Mr. Hunt to disappear. To never bother the troupe again. And that’s what she wanted. To make a fresh start somewhere and leave all thought of Narcissa LaBelle behind. Surely, she could find a job somewhere. A maid at a hotel or maybe a clerk in a shop. A lack of references would matter less out here than it did in Chicago. Of course, she had no money. Or clothes. Or even shoes.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally answered. “I can’t go back. Is there a church nearby? Someplace where I might acquire some cast-off clothing?”

“Closest church is in Glen Rose,” one of the older gentlemen offered. “But that’s at least five miles from here.”

“And I don’t ’spect they keep clothes for womenfolk hangin’ in the pantry.” A grim-looking fellow leaning on a walking stick offered that disheartening piece of information. “Leastwise, I never seen any.”

Penelope wasn’t ready to give up, though. God had seen her through the darkest night of her life. He’d see her through the realities of the day, as well. “Perhaps the minister’s wife would be willing to loan—”

“Preacher’s a young whippersnapper who ain’t caught himself a filly yet,” one of the heavier men reported. “I doubt he’ll be of much help.”

A debate arose among the grizzled gallery about preachers and poor boxes and what might be available where until Mr. Kingsley let out a sharp whistle. The men fell quiet.

“We can worry about finding clothes for her later.”

Mr. Kingsley slipped his arm through one suspender strap and left the elastic to fall to his waist. What was he doing?

“She’s been out here all night. She’s shivering, and she’s got no shoes.”

He’d noticed her shivering?

“Angus, you and Coy look for a pair of strong branches. We’ll use her blanket to rig a litter to carry her back to the ranch.”

She was not giving up her blanket and leaving herself exposed in front of seven strange men. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.” Good heavens, all that covered her was a petticoat, a camisole, and Narcissa’s horrible corset that exposed more than it hid.

Mr. Kingsley turned to face her as he slid his second arm free of the suspenders. He arched a brow at her. “If we were in the middle of a manicured lawn or had access to a hard-packed path, I’d agree with you. But the terrain out here is filled with rocks, thorns, and rattlesnakes. You won’t make it twenty yards before your feet are cut and bleeding. Unless you want to climb on my back, a litter is the best plan.”

Heat scalded her cheeks at the thought of him carrying her in such an exposing fashion. “But I can’t . . .” She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Please, I have to keep this blanket. I’m not . . . properly dressed.”

His gaze softened in sympathy. “I know,” he whispered back. “That’s why I’m making a trade.”

“A trade?”

He took off his hat, turned it upside down, and set it on the ground, brim-side up. Then he unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt, yanked the tails from the waistband of his trousers, and tugged the garment over his head.

Thankfully he wore a beige undershirt, but she still dropped her eyes. With as much as she hated men staring upon her person, she’d not be a woman who imposed her attention on a man. Especially one trying to lend her aid.

“Here,” he said, handing her his shirt. “You can use the tree as a screen. None of us will bother you.” His eyes met hers, honor glowing in their depths. “You have my word.”

She believed him.

Penelope reached between the edges of the blanket to accept his gift. “Thank you.”

This would be much more practical than trying to keep a blanket wrapped around her, but she still wasn’t enamored by the prospect of stretching out on a litter carried by men she didn’t know. Surrendering all control. Having them towering over her. Surely there was another way.

Mr. Kingsley finagled his suspenders back onto his shoulders and had just bent to retrieve his hat when an idea leapt to her mind.

“What if we make bandages from the blanket?” she blurted.

He straightened, his brow furrowing. “Are you bleeding?” He craned his neck to examine her from another angle. “I thought you said you weren’t seriously injured.”

“I’m not. But bandages aren’t only used to slow bleeding. They are also used to protect wounds from encountering further harm. We could fold a thick pad to serve as a sole of sorts, then wrap strips around my feet to hold it in place. It wouldn’t hold up for a long distance, but surely it would suffice for thirty or forty minutes.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, obviously not too keen on giving up his original plan, but then he shrugged. “They’re your feet, I suppose. If you’d rather walk around on bandages, that’s your prerogative. Just watch where you step. It’s easy to spot cacti, but greenbrier thorns will sneak up on you. A few strips of wool won’t keep them from gouging your instep.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

He fit his hat to his head, the brim coming down to shade his eyes. Was he angry with her? No. He probably just wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t responsible for any harm that might befall her should she make her way on foot.