Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

stomach of the whale. Colors gleamed with glaring brightness, the landscape took on a more three-dimensional quality, people's faces and forms developed a marvelously full-bodied volume, voices struck his ear with a distinct articulation, like the clarity of church bells. And the air was blessedly fresh in his lungs.

A deafening cheer exploded and he smiled, gripping the hand Joe Sherman put out, and allowing his arm to be shaken more vigorously than his damaged body appreciated. But pain was a pleasant reminder he was alive, he decided, and he wouldn't begrudge the discomfort.

As soon as congratulations diminished to less raucous levels, he explained how his miraculous survival had occurred, how he'd been propelled up a raise by the pressure of the flood waters, and been lucky enough to have been forced up the ventilation shaft while he was still alive.

Impatient to talk to Daisy however, he excused himself from the milling crowd to make a call to Clear River Valley. Smiles and understanding looks of indulgence followed him as he walked toward the office. When he failed to get a response, he had the foreman try, assuming he must be overlooking some idiosyncrasy in local telephone connections.

"Grounding must be down on the line. Happens a lot, Mr. De Vec," Joe Sherman said after his attempt failed as well, "once you're five miles out of town."

Etienne tried the Braddock-Black home next in the event they'd returned to Helena with Daisy, but was told the Braddock-Blacks were still out at the mine.

"Since they left to bring Miss Daisy back to Clear River Valley, sir," George Stuntz said, "they're probably all at the valley ranch."

The Braddock-Blacks were, in fact, all in transit at the moment, Hazard and Trey on their way back to the mine, Blaze and Empress returning to Helena.

The Duc's horse had been taken back to Clear River Valley, as well, when Daisy left, so Etienne borrowed a mount and one of Trey's coats to cover his wet clothes. The long travel-duster lined in wool would keep him warm on the ride home; he didn't want to take the time to change. He wasn't sure, in any event, if his battered body would appreciate the abrasion.

"Would you try reaching the Braddock-Blacks later," the Duc asked, slipping his wet shirtsleeves into the coat. "If the phones at my ranch are down, I won't be able to contact them."

Shaking hands once again with all the smiling men in the office, he took his leave.

"Good to see you alive, sir," Joe reiterated. "Made our day, sir."

The men in the office, as well as the miners, were all friends of Daisy's for she'd grown up underfoot, tagging along with her father as a child, naturally assuming a role in the operations as she matured. Daisy talked to them all exactly like her father and brother would, her understanding of mining equal to theirs, and they teased her like they would a daughter or sister. While still a child she'd begun going underground with her father with an undaunted courage they'd all admired. She'd grown up, as it were, with copper dust in her teeth, and she was their darling.

"Give our best to Miss Daisy," George said, echoing the feelings of all present.

Standing in the doorway of the office, Etienne bore a startling resemblance to Hazard and Trey, dressed as he was in Trey's long leather coat, his harsh aquiline features and long black hair reminiscent of an Absarokee. Saluting with a briefly raised hand, he said with a smile, "I'll deliver your message personally."

Etienne arrived in Clear River Valley in record time, the sight of the rustic log house so beautiful it compared for that moment with the architectural wonders of the ages. Move over Rameses II temple at Abu Simbel, step aside the Taj Mahal, weep in envy the Parthenon, he jubilantly thought cantering up the drive.

He wanted to shout with joy.

But the house was silent as he approached—odd for this hour of the day, particularly if the Braddock-Blacks were here. More curiously, when he dismounted and ascended the stairs to the entrance, no one opened the door for him.

The stillness was palpable as he stepped into the foyer, now denuded of its numerous mounted trophies. Glancing up the stairway to the darkened hallway above, he wondered:

Had Daisy not come home?

Sprinting up the stairs to see for himself, he strode swiftly down the carpeted hallway, his boots softly squishing at each step, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the burgundy carpet. At their bedroom he quickly pushed the door open and then abruptly stopped as he caught sight of Daisy.

And he understood the Absarokee phrase—my heart sang.

Across the deep shadows of the room, Daisy lay curled in his chair, sleeping.

Closing the door softly behind him, he stood in the gray light, drinking in the precious sight of her, his heart and mind pervaded with the sheer beauty of his love, a sense of miracle so strong he silently promised all the gods who might have aided his escape some tangible recompense for their spectacular handiwork.

How deeply moving it was to simply stand in this plain and unadorned room, knowing he could take Daisy in his arms once more and hold her. He could be with her when their child was born. He could sleep with her at night and wake with her beside him in the morning.

He could take her hand in his, feel her slender fingers lace companionably through his—a simple act—trivial and mundane.

But almost lost to him. And he was so profoundly grateful he shut his eyes for a moment, standing like a dark shadow before the door, and whispered into the hushed room, "Thank you."

Walking quietly over to the chair, he squatted down, his long coat trailing on the floor, and saw where the tears had dried on Daisy's cheeks, saw her small hand clutched into a fist under her chin, saw the soft curve of her cheek resting on the high padded arm of