“I am not opposed to poking you in the ribs or twisting your foot, so you might want to temper your observations.”
It was difficult for Morgan to take the threat too seriously when Jane’s virginal blush was already coloring her cheeks. He was tempted to kiss her splendid and saucy mouth and was prevented from doing so by the stitch in his side every time he took a breath, but when Jane began to rise, he risked sharpening his pain by reaching for her arm and managing to capture her wrist.
“Yes?” she asked, looking from him to his clasp.
“You’re going?”
She hesitated. “Not if you don’t wish it.”
“I thought you could sit here for a while longer.”
“You’re tired.”
He did not deny it. “Maybe you could read to me for a spell.”
Jane glanced at the books at his bedside. “From one of those?” When he nodded and released her wrist, she picked up the books and held them up. “Treasure Island or Daisy Miller?”
“Do you have a preference?”
“Whichever will put you to sleep more quickly.”
“That’s easy. Daisy Miller.”
Jane set Treasure Island down, walked around the bed to the rocking chair, and sat where the late afternoon sunlight could spill over her shoulder. “I confess to being surprised you are in possession of Daisy.”
“Mrs. Bridger lent it to me on one of my previous trips to town.”
“The marshal’s wife?”
“The schoolteacher,” he said firmly. “She believes everyone should read. She’s going to build a library.”
“Really? Here?”
“Well, in Bitter Springs.”
“That’s what I meant. It is quite a wonderful contribution to the town.” Jane opened the book to where Morgan had inserted a ribbon marker. “You do not seem to have read very far.”
“Second time through.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t much care for Daisy the first go-round. It occurred to me that I should give her another chance before I returned the book.”
“I wish the author had liked her half as well as I did. He might have decided to end her story differently. He wrote her as a woman who did not behave in conventional ways and then punished her for it. It seemed so unfair.”
“I thought she behaved naïvely. I would have liked her better if she acted out of some conviction, but it seemed to me that she was insensible of her society or the stir she created.”
Jane blinked. “You really did read it.”
“You thought I lied?”
“I—no, not—well, perhaps that—” Jane shut her mouth.
“Maybe you should start reading,” Morgan said. “Let Henry James speak for you.”
Jane lifted the book and did as he suggested.
Morgan slept through supper, which Jane believed was exactly as it should be. By his own admission, he had gotten very little sleep the previous night. Jane prepared sandwiches and baked apples for the men, which they carried outside and ate on the back porch. She considered joining them but decided against it. Morgan’s view of the flirtatious Daisy Miller might have factored into her reluctance, but Jane was also aware that the men were not as comfortable around her alone as they were when Morgan was in their midst.
