From Runaway To Pregnant Bride. Tatiana March
He was curious. And concerned. There had been something odd in the way the kid had glanced about him before setting off to bathe. And those baggy clothes the kid wore, and the way he never took off his hat. Maybe he was covering up some injury—scars from an accident, or some defect he was born with.
Clay kept watching, the turmoil of emotions anchoring his feet to the ground. The kid pushed the cotton shirt down his narrow shoulders. Clay’s brows drew into a frown. He’d guessed right. A wide bandage circled the kid’s torso, covering him from armpit to waist.
With nimble hands, the kid undid the clasps that held the bandage secure and began unraveling it. Loop after loop, the fabric fell away, revealing an expanse of smooth, white skin. His shoulder blades protruded slightly on either side of the narrow groove of the spine. Angel’s wings, Clay had once heard someone describe such a feature, but that had been on a woman.
He could see nothing wrong with the kid, no deformity, if you didn’t count the lack of muscle and the oddly tiny waist. The final loop of the bandage fell away and the kid bent to set the bundle of fabric down on the stone. When he turned to pick up the soap, the curve of a small, rounded breast peeked into view.
Clay’s mind seized up with the shock. He took a step back and sank on the ground, elbows propped on his knees, head cradled in his hands. The vegetation formed a barrier between them, but the sight remained burned in his memory.
The kid was a girl.
A huge wave of relief crashed over Clay. There was nothing wrong with him, no sudden change in his mental makeup. He didn’t think of boys in such a way. It was simply that his body had figured out the truth before his mind knew.
Of course. Of course.
Fragments of recollection ricocheted around his brain. The voice. Mostly, the kid spoke in a low voice, but sometimes he forgot and the pitch climbed high. And that soft skin...those big eyes...the slender shape...and sometimes, when the kid prattled on, there was something downright feminine and coquettish about his manner.
Her manner.
A girl.
As the shock of the discovery faded, Clay’s senses began to function again. He could hear the girl singing, could hear the splashing of water. He felt his body tighten. She was bathing.
Temptation tugged at him like a physical pull. He shouldn’t look. It was not the gentlemanly thing to do. But he was powerless to resist the masculine inclination. Easing up onto his feet, he peered between the leaves of a scrub oak.
She was kneeling on the stone, bending forward, washing her hair. Long and black, it cascaded down in a sleek curtain. Now Clay understood why the kid never took her hat off in front of others. She couldn’t have been pretending to be a boy for very long, for if she had, she would have been forced to cut her hair.
Turn around, Clay urged in his mind. Turn around.
But she did not. His eyes lingered on what he could see—the nape of a slender neck, the narrow span of those angel wing shoulders, an impossibly slender waist and the feminine curve of hips, hidden inside the mended wool pants.
Would she strip completely? Would she take off her pants? Would she turn around, giving him another glimpse of those small, rosy-tipped breasts? Clay felt his heart hammering away in his chest as he watched the girl. She was singing again, in breathless snatches while she soaped and rinsed her hair.
Cape Cod girls ain’t got no combs,
They brush their hair with codfish bones...
Cape Cod kids ain’t got no sleds,
They slide down the hills on codfish heads...
Cape Cod girls ain’t got no frills,
They tie their hair with codfish gills...
As the afternoon sun burned in the sky, the girl straightened in her kneeling position. She canted her head to one side and wrung the water from her hair, taking care not to hurt her blistered hands. And then, turning a little, she reached for the flour sack on the stone, and Clay got the peek he’d been waiting for. The sight of those firm, tip-tilted breasts made his gut clench.
After patting her skin dry, the girl rose to her feet and picked up the long strip of linen and used it to disguise her feminine shape again. Hurrying now, she pulled her cotton shirt back on and leaned down to gather up her soap and the makeshift towel and the bowler hat propped beside her feet.
Without a sound, Clay retreated up the path to the small meadow where the horse and mule stood grazing. While he took a moment to allow the storm of agitation inside him to ease, he stroked the floppy ears of the mule and mulled over the situation.
How long could the girl protect her secret? Should he let her know he’d stumbled upon the truth? And what about Mr. Hicks? The gruff old man hated women. What would happen when he found out? And he would find out, for there was no way the girl could keep up the pretense for a month. No way on earth.
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