that it was easier to punish a bad woman than a good oneeasier to punish Lydia Taggart than saintly Sarah?
The wind had freshened, bringing the scent of another storm. Donovan glowered at the encroaching clouds, cursing under his breath. Why did everything in life have to be so hellishly complicated? Why couldn’t Sarah have been a man—someone he could simply challenge to a gunfight or thrash to a bloody pulp? Why did she have to be so beautiful, so soft, so full of courage?
“Uncle Donovan?” Katy’s forlorn little voice shattered his reverie. He turned to see her standing alone on the porch, clutching her slate.
“Where’s Miss Sarah, Uncle Donovan? I wanted her to come in and see my carries and borrows.”
“Uh—Miss Sarah had to leave in a hurry.” Donovan squirmed under her innocent scrutiny. “She said to tell you she was sorry,” he added, hating the lie but seeing no other way out.
“But I was all ready to show her.” Katy’s small head drooped. The sight of her tugged at Donovan’s heart. Annie was the bright sister, the capable, responsible one. And young Samuel was the best natured of Varina’s brood. But it was lively, loving little Katy who had truly won him.
He lifted her chin with a solicitous finger. She and her sister deserved toys and fun and pretty dresses, he thought, not ragged clothes, hard work and a miserable shack in the mountains with no father to look after them.
“Hey, where’s that smile?” he cajoled her.
“It’s hiding!” Katy clutched her slate to her chest. “I want Miss Sarah to come back!”
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