Abby knew she was a hard worker. She was dependable. Mr. Barrington had already come to rely on her. She’d taken over the morning and evening milking of the cows and he trusted her completely with the boys.
But did he find her attractive?
Her mind drifted to that first picture of Elise. The young girl had exuded feminine charm. It had been her eyes and the slight quirk of her lips.
Abby picked up the silver-backed mirror and glanced at her reflection.
The sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose had always made her look younger, less sophisticated. And she’d never been fond of her nose, far too short and perky.
Abby glanced down her nightgown. Her breasts were large and full, and it had been her experience that men liked large breasts. More than once she’d caught the butler looking at her body. But she wasn’t petite like Elise.
She propped her mirror against the wall and held her hair up in a looser, more fashionable hairstyle.
The style didn’t suit. No amount of fancy hairstyles or perfume would ever make her as pretty as Elise.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering Mr. Barrington’s kiss. In that moment they had seemed to fit together very well, almost as if their bodies had been fashioned with the other in mind.
Frustrated, Abby laid her head against her pillow, then rolled on her side and blew out the lantern. She lay in the dark staring into the utter blackness. Slowly sleep crept through her limbs.
Abby had nearly drifted completely off when she heard the howl of wolves. At first she thought it a dream and rolled on her side away from the door, hugging the blanket close to her chin.
But then she heard Mr. Barrington get out of bed. She’d not imagined the sounds. He’d heard them, too.
She sat up to the sound of him pulling on his pants and boots. Leather rubbed against the bedpost—he’d reached for his gun belt, which always stayed within arm’s reach.
Her fatigue vanished and in an instant her heart hammered against her chest. Where was he going? In the weeks she’d been here, she’d never known him to stir at night.
Steady purposeful steps echoed in the cabin as he moved to the front door. The door opened, then closed.
Abby strained to hear. There was the sound of the boys’ deep even breathing. The distant howl of a coyote.
An unsettled feeling seeped into the marrow of her bones.
Something was wrong.
In the dark, Abby felt around for her boots then slipped them on. Next, she searched for her shawl. When she found it at the base of her pallet, she tossed it over her shoulders.
If she had any sense, she’d have lit a lantern. But Mr. Barrington had not. What she’d heard outside had not been a dream. He’d heard it, too.
Gingerly, she eased down the ladder. She’d spent enough time in this cabin to know its furnishings and layout by heart. To her left was the kitchen and to her right the bed where the boys slept.
Despite her familiarity with the room the night’s utter blackness threw off her senses and she found herself moving more slowly than normal.
She bumped hard into the front door, stubbing her toe.
Pain shot up her leg and tears flooded her eyes. “Blast,” she whispered. Gripping her toe she drew in deep, even breaths until the pain passed.
She eased her weight back down onto her injured toe, testing it, until she was certain she’d not broken it.
Slowly, she lifted the latch and cracked open the front door. Easing outside, she closed the door quietly behind her.
Abby took one step when strong arms clamped over her mouth and banded around her waist. She was dragged against a hard-muscled chest.
Chapter Eleven
Abby should have been afraid, but she wasn’t.
She was mad that someone would come onto her porch and accost her after all the sweat and time she’d invested. With Mr. Barrington nowhere in sight, she wondered if this cretin had ambushed Mr. Barrington, as well.
Fear sliced through her as she pictured him bleeding and injured. Desperate to find him, she did the first thing that came to mind. She drove the heel of her boot into her attacker’s shin.
Save for a soft grunt, her attacker made no sound. Instead, he tightened his hold, and, lifting her off her feet, carried her toward the barn.
Abby struggled, her shawl dropped to the porch, but her efforts accomplished nothing, other than draining her own strength. She tried to kick her assailant again but each time he was ready for her, sidestepping her attacks easily.
“Stop fighting me, damn it!”
At the sound of Mr. Barrington’s gruff voice, Abby froze. He half drug, half carried her across the yard to the barn. Kicking the barn door open with his foot, he pulled her inside and then closed it. He flipped her around and pressed her back against the door. She stared up into his shadowed face, just inches from hers. His hot breath brushed her cheek.