Spitfire Quotes

Ned?' he says, after a while. 'Oi, Ned?' 'What?' 'If someone says to you that the guy they're going out with doesn't have to prove how smart he is, what's your response?' 'That he's dumb.' 'And if he has a sixpack?' 'Dumb jock.' 'Not too intense.' 'Dumb jock with no personality.' 'And they see eye to eye?' Ned pauses. 'With the spitfire from Dili?' 'Same,' Tom corrects. Ned holds up a hand to where Tara would reach him in height. 'Dumb jock with no personality and short-man syndrome.' 'Thanks, Ned.' 'Anytime.

Don't ever let anyone put out your light because they are blinded by it.

In the end, you will not see the physical beauty in others that caught your eye, but the fire that burned within them. This kind of beauty is the bonfire you had to attend.

High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air.... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace. Where never lark, or even eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, - Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John: I'm experiencing an odd sensation. I think it might be patriotism. Spitfire: Steady. Too much of that can damage your health.

I would spar with the boys at school. This guy I had a crush on, we called him Spitfire -- I gave him a bloody nose and lip, so needless to say the romance did not work out!

There's a superstition among falconers that a hawk's ability is inversely proportional to the ferocity of its name. Call a hawk Tiddles and it will be a formidable hunter; call it Spitfire or Slayer and it will probably refuse to fly at all.

Come now, you can move faster than that! Everyone says you were a spitfire on the cliffs this morning." I let him spin me at that. "They do?" "They're saying that you and Sean Kendrick were burning up the cliffs." Tommy spins me again and grins at me. "And when I say you and Sean Kendrick, i mean you and Sean Kendrick. And by burning, I mean burning." I jerk to a stop and spin him instead. I pretend he's talking about racing. 'You worried?

You will never be able to end any battle if the people involved are unable to see their own hypocrisy, or how their insecurity contributed to their problems. Wounded people often choose to play the victim, so they can restore their dignity in unhealthy ways. Sadly, they do this through feeling justified, by making bad choices or actions (that honestly no diety would want them to do). This inability to accept their part in their unhappiness keeps them from growing. They need your prayers more than your anger. Just walk away. Let it go and pray that one day they will understand your pain, as much as you do theirs. Remember: The sexiest woman alive is one that can walk away from a place that God doesn't want them to be. Do so with your head held high and forgive yourself and others. When you can do this, you will know what God's definition of class is-- YOU!

You are a spitfire of a woman, do you know that? You remind me of a horse that hasn't been broken yet. All skittish and full of wild energy." "Are you for real?" Her jaw fell open. "Did you just compare me to a horse?

She thought about the men with bows and arrows. They were really here, weren’t they, once upon a time. And mammoths and ladies in crinolines and Spitfires overhead. Places remained and time flowed through them like wind through the grass. Right now. This was the future turning into the past. One thing becoming another thing. Like a flame on the end of a match. Wood turning into smoke. If only we could burn brighter. A barn roaring in the night.

and we walked out into the sun. She was just as I had remembered her from seventy years earlier, when, aged five, I was dropped into an open cockpit at Hawkinge field and became mesmerized by the power and beauty of the Supermarine Spitfire. The long, lean lines, only slightly degraded by the bubble Perspex dome behind the pilot’s cockpit; the recognizable-anywhere elliptical wings, the genius of designer R. J. Mitchell. The four-bladed propeller, stark against the Kentish late-summer sky the same cerulean blue it had been in the summer of 1944. That was when I swore my little boy’s oath; that one day I, too, would fly a Spitfire.

Your mom shoulda told you she was just the diseased old slit all the local hobos used as a cum dumpster when they drank away their money and couldn't afford new porno mags.

This spitfire of a woman, a woman I had every reason to hate, made me question everything.

Remember, Spark. Your name. Fighter. Spitfire. Love. You.

This woman is everything I never knew I needed—a sarcastic, fiery spitfire, a challenge. Different.

I’d always been a spitfire, and proud of it. An unbreakable spirit in a world that wanted me to be quiet, small, subservient.

Tad they were too young to die…My Mom was a spitfire—a total accident waiting to happen. I’m like her—I can trip over nothing.” Tad chuckled acknowledging the thought. “My father…he was more serious. He used to give me lectures like no tomorrow, he had a strong sense of who I should be—who I wanted to be and how to guide me, and he was my best friend. It seems like everything I love is just out of my reach now.

On THE DECSIVE DUEL: SPITFIRE VS 109 The epic struggle between the Spitfire and the Messerschmitt 109 upon which so much of western civilization depended in the summer of 1940 has found the ideal biographer in David Isby. I write "biographer" because, like the men who flew these remarkable fighter planes, Isby sees them in almost human terms, transcending the mere mechanical. (Andrew Roberts, Author Of The Storm Of War )

I offer nothing more than simple facts, plain arguments, and common sense,” Thomas Paine, the spitfire son of an English grocer, wrote in Common Sense, in 1776. Kings have no right to reign, Paine argued, because, if we could trace hereditary monarchy back to its beginnings—“could we take off the dark covering of antiquity, and trace them to their first rise”—we’d find “the first of them nothing better than the principal ruffian of some restless gang.

She's a spitfire and she has no idea how beautiful she is. It always looks like she has something on her mind. It seems like she has the world on her shoulders and I just wish that I could take away all of her pain. I know she's been through a lot in her life, but she never lets it get to her. I can tell that somebody has really beaten her down and broken her spirits. It just makes me want to beat the living shit out of that person for making her feel the way she does. While she's the smartest person I know, she can also be so blind because I thought I'd gotten my feelings across, but I'm either not trying hard enough or she just thinks very little of herself. I want to be the one who helps her. Takes care of her. I know we could be something really great. The only question is whether she's willing to take that leap of faith with me. I'm just waiting for her to open her eyes and see what's standing right in front of her.

Termagant!” he moaned after her. “Shrew! Harridan! All right, all right, you win, you, you . . . uh . . . virago, you spitfire . . .” He rubbed his head and sat up, grinned sheepishly. Lin made an obscene gesture at him without turning around.

An offer indeed," said Lord Brandoch Daha; "if it be not in mockery. Say it loud, that my folk may hear." Corund did so, and the Demons heard it from the walls of the burg. Lord Brandoch Daha stood somewhat apart from Juss and Spitfire and their guard. "Libel it me out," he said. "For good as I now must deem thy word, thine hand and seal must I have to show my followers ere they consent with me in such a thing." "Write thou," said Corund to Gro. "To write my name is all my scholarship." And Gro took forth his ink-born and wrote in a great fair hand this offer on a parchment. "The most fearfullest oaths thou knowest," said Corund; and Gro wrote them, whispering, "He mocketh us only." But Corund said, "No matter: 'tis a chance worth our chancing," and slowly and with labour signed his name to the writing, and gave it to Lord Brandoch Daha. Brandoch Daha read it attentively, and tucked it in his bosom beneath his byrny. "This," he said, "shall be a keepsake for me of thee, my Lord Corund. Reminding me," and here his eyes grew terrible, "so long as there surviveth a soul of you in Witchland, that I am still to teach the world throughly what that man must abide that durst affront me with such an offer.

industries’ capacity to produce fighter aircraft—Hurricanes and Spitfires—at a rate high enough not just to compensate for the fast-mounting losses but also to increase the overall number of planes available for combat. Fighters alone in no way could win the war,

Too bad the Nazis aren't vampires, Ollie thought. At least with vampires, they could be deterred with holy water, crosses, and cloves of garlic. But with Nazis, we need antiaircraft guns, Hurricanes, and Spitfires. Ollie glanced back at the lofts. And maybe pigeons.

God, June thought, I have to get my life together. For my children. She thought of Nina’s bright smile, and Jay’s cocksure determination, and Hud’s gentleness, the way he always hugged her tight. She thought of Kit, that spitfire, who might just one day rule them all.

With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my own ideas. Few things, in this so surprising world, strike me with more surprise. Two little visual Spectra of men, hovering with insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the UNFATHOMABLE, and to dissolve therein, at any rate, very soon,—make pause at the distance of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and, simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into Dissolution; and off-hand become Air, and Non-extant! Deuce on it (verdammt), the little spitfires!—Nay, I think with old Hugo von Trimberg: 'God must needs laugh outright, could such a thing be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.

You need a husband and some babies to look after. Otherwise you're going to grow up into a virago...

What do you do when just looking at someone renders you completely and totally awestruck?

Sterling,” said the mustached man with a mischievous grin. “You didn’t tell us you had company waiting for you.

Padding silently across the thick carpet, he reminded me of a lion tracking its prey.

What do you know, Cinderella?” he said with a smirk. “Looks like Prince Charming came with both shoes this time.

Strictly speaking it (Virago) refers to a heroic, warlike woman, but there are many other less flattering synonyms - biddy, bitch, dragon, fishwife, fury, harpy, harridan, hussy, muckraker, scold, she-devil, siren, spitfire, termagant, tygress, vituperator, vixen, wench.... I long to be a combination of all of them because every one of those epithets sounds like a woman who would stand up for herself.

Here is something I learned in the hundreds of years I spent in the center of the Earth and later in the libraries and bedchambers, pressed between your pages, carving my way out of your stories with one of the knives you gave me to show your readers that I was a spitfire, a flame-breathing beauty with black hair and barbed bits. Imaginary countries and imaginary cunts are in the same category. They are the same story.

I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius.

She wasn’t one of those girls who seemed to be everywhere, hands on hips, those girls who were described in certain books and movies as being “spitfires,” or, later on, “kickass.” Even now, at college, there were girls like this, fuck-you confident and assured of their place in the world. Whenever they came upon resistance in the form of outright sexism or even more generic grossness, they either vanquished it or essentially rolled their eyes and acted as if it was just too stupid for them to acknowledge.

At the Suez Canal, the British became alarmed at the Egyptian debacle and the possibility of Israeli penetration near the canal. They demanded that the Jews stop or face the British Army. In warning, the British sent Spitfire fighters into the sky to gun the Israelis. It seemed only fitting somehow that the last shots of the War of Liberation were against the British. The Israeli Air Force brought down six British fighter planes. Then Israel yielded to international pressure by letting the Egyptians escape. The

Never, not in her wildest dreams, had she dared to imagine that she'd be that important to someone. As if she was air and without her, he couldn't breathe. "I love you too," she whispered. "And I forgive future Sailor for being a dumbass." Linking her arms around his neck, she spoke through the storm inside her. "In fact, I think future Sailor is going to be an incredible man I'll adore more with each and every day." "Yeah?" His lips kicked up in that familiar smile, but there was a question in his eyes, a quiet hunger. "What's he going to do?" Ísa knew what he was asking her, what he needed her to tell him. "He's going to be a man who works hard but who has time for the people he loves. And he definitely has time to get up to wicked things with a certain redhead." "I like this guy's priorities already." "He's also the kind of father who takes a turn doing the school run because he enjoys spending time with his child." It was scary doing this, laying out her dreams, but Sailor had given her everything. Ísa would be brave enough to give him the same back. "He has time to play with his baby, and to kiss his wife, and even if he forgets things now and then, or if he gets a little busy for a while, it's all right because his wife and child and all the members of his family know they're loved beyond measure." Perfection had never been what Ísa wanted. "Because when it matters, he's there. He sees the people who love him." Demon-blue eyes solemn, Sailor said, "I can do that." It was a vow. "I can be that guy." "You already are." Ísa whispered. "You're my dream, Sailor." But Sailor shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet, spitfire. I'm going to court the hell out of you." After a meditative pause, he added, "Nakedness during said courting is optional but highly encouraged." He was wonderful. And he was hers.

I walked into Haven Falls, knowing that one of the Hecate women would be powerful enough to become the new high queen.” His mouth brushed over my ear, nipping at the delicate lobe as he growled roughly. “I found her, except she turned out to be this ethereal, beautiful little spitfire who rattled and purred. Her scent drove me insane with need, and every part of her called to every part of me. It was supposed to be easy. Walk into your life, end it, and force the rest of your family to return so I could murder them on my land. I changed gears after meeting you. I have wanted no one or needed anything as much as I do you, Aria Hecate.

Your name?” he prompted again, releasing my shoulders and standing back up straight. It was then I realized again just how very tall he was. A frame that must have been close to six-four filled out a charcoal-gray suit in a way that made me wonder just how much time he spent wearing a suit and how much time he spent at the gym. “Yum,” I whispered before I could stop to think. “Your name is Yum?

I loved my wife,” Nelson said, and anything else Wallace had to say died on his tongue. “She was … vibrant. A spitfire. There wasn’t anyone like her in all the world, and for some reason, she chose me. She loved me.” He smiled, though Wallace thought it was more to himself than anything else. “She had this habit. Drove me up the wall. She’d come home from work, and the first thing she’d do was take off her shoes and leave them by the door. Her socks would follow, just laid out on the floor. A trail of clothes left there, waiting for me to pick them up. I asked her why she just didn’t put them in the hamper like a normal person. You know what she said?” “What?” Wallace asked. “She said that life was more than dirty socks.” Wallace stared at him. “That … doesn’t mean anything.” Nelson’s smile widened. “Right? But it made perfect sense to her.” His smile trembled. “I came home one day. I was late. I opened the door, and there were no shoes right inside. No socks on the floor. No trail of clothes. I thought for once she’d picked up after herself. I was … relieved? I was tired and didn’t want to have to clean up her mess. I called for her. She didn’t answer. I went through the house, room by room, but she wasn’t there. Late, I told myself. It happens. And then the phone rang. That was the day I learned my wife had passed unexpectedly. And it’s funny, really. Because even as they told me she was gone, that it had been quick and she hadn’t suffered, all I could think about was how I’d give anything to have her shoes by the door. Her dirty socks on the floor. A trail of clothes leading toward the bedroom.

Many hundreds of craft of all sizes and nationalities - transatlantic steamers, full-rigged ships, barques, schooners, and fishing smacks - were running into the Sound from the open sea, making for the shelter of the roads of Elsinore. Not a single vessel was heading the other way, all were scudding in before the tempest; many of them, no doubt, had put to sea several days before, bound round the Skaw into the German Ocean, but had been compelled to turn back by the violence of the hurricane. They were all staggering along under the smallest possible amounts of canvas, pitching heavily into the frightfully high seas; here a full-rigged ship under close-reefed topsails; here a schooner under fore and main trysails; here a brig under bare poles; here a pilot-cutter under spit-fire jib, and the balance-reef down in her mainsail. Several vessels had lost spars or portions of their bulwarks; one Norwegian barque was evidently water-logged, and in a sinking condition, and was floundering slowly into smoother water, but just in time; and outside the Sound, on the raging Kattegat, were hundreds of other vessels, some hull down on the horizon, making for the same refuge, their fate still uncertain among those gigantic rollers, and, no doubt, with many an anxious heart on board of them.

The martial art of words, self-defense in spitfire venom rolling off her lips. She didn’t know what to do, when she needed words that didn’t taste like poison and rot and the iced sugar glaze of protective cruelty. She’d think she didn’t know how to be kind anymore, but that would imply she’d ever known at all.

I am not fucking you on a bar,” she said. Oh, there was the spitfire. “Let’s get one thing straight now,” I said … “I do the fucking here.

Well, well, if it isn’t the little spitfire herself.” Lily glanced up with a start and found Jimmy Neil standing two steps above her. A slow grin spread across his face, and the black gaps where he was missing parts of his top teeth seemed to stare at her. He’d leered at her several times that past week during the meals he’d taken in the dining room. But she’d made a point of ignoring him. And that’s exactly what she planned to do this time too. He moved one step closer, and the stench of the alcohol on his breath filled the space between them. He’d likely already been out at the taverns long enough to drink too much but would continue with the drinking as long as he was conscious. So why was he back at the hotel? “Ran out of money,” he said too softly, as if he’d seen the direction of her thoughts. “The night’s still young, and I aim to get my fill of women.” His eyes glistened with brittle lust. A man like Jimmy Neil didn’t deserve a response, not even the briefest acknowledgment that she’d heard his lurid words. She turned her head and pushed past him in the narrow stairwell. But before she could get by, his arm shot out and blocked her path. “Where you goin’ so fast?” “Get out of my way.” She shoved his arm, but it didn’t budge. She tried to duck under it, but he stuck out his knee. He leaned into her. The sickly heat and sourness of his breath fanned her neck. “Maybe I don’t need to go back out, not when I can have a little spitfire right here, right now.” She stifled a shudder and the shiver of fear that accompanied it. She might have broken free of him last time, but he was drunk now, and there was no telling what he was capable of doing. Better for her to play it safe. She spun and tried to retreat the way she’d come, but his other hand slapped against the wall, trapping her into an awkward prison within the confines of his arms. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere except up to my room with me.” He pushed himself against her in such a carnal way that she couldn’t keep from crying out in alarm. His hand cut off her cry, covering her mouth and smothering any chance she had at calling for help. A rush of fear turned her blood to ice. For an instant Daisy’s sweet face flitted into her mind. Was this the way men treated her sister? How could she possibly withstand such abuse day after day? As if seeing the fright in Lily’s eyes, his gap-toothed smile widened. “It’s always more fun when there’s some scratchin’ and clawin’.” His hand against her mouth and nose was beginning to suffocate her. She swung her head, struggling to break free and jerked up her knee, trying to connect it with his tender spot. But he was pressed too close, and he only strengthened his grip. She tried to scream and then bite him. But she was quickly losing strength in the dizzying wave that rushed over her. Suddenly his smile froze and fear flitted across his face. “Let go of her. Now. Or I’ll shove this knife in all the way.” Connell’s voice was low and menacing. Slowly Jimmy’s grip loosened. She caught a glimpse of Connell, one step down, his face a mask of calm fury.

Niektórzy z nich zamienili z nami kilka słów i po odkryciu, że jesteśmy Polakami i katolikami, przyjęli nas jak stałych bywalców. Odkryliśmy później, jakie to było ważne — przed dywizjonami polskimi stacjonowały tutaj dywizjony angielskie i Irlandzka Armia Republikańska, organizacja nielegalna, spaliła im kilka spitfire'ów — tylko dlatego, że byli Anglikami i — co gorsza — protestantami. Nic dziwnego, że władze angielskie wysyłały teraz do Ballyhalbert jedynie polskie dywizjony.

Of course it is. Marriage is out of the question. It’s highly unlikely that God means for her to be a preacher’s wife.” Such a woman would have to be modest, reserved, and obedient—all the things Elizabeth Princeton was not. “As unlikely as Sarai and Abram having a child in their old age?” Alden asked. “Or Moses, a man slow of speech, becoming a leader and great orator?” added the preacher with the watch. The Texan gave a nod. “Or a lowly shepherd boy takin’ down Goliath without benefit of a firearm?” Soon a friendly game was in progress with the four older preachers vying to name God’s most unlikely servants.

She had on men’s clothes—the hat, britches, shirt, boots, even a six-gun she wore on her hip. It had never bothered her before Rylan Carstens. She wiped her eyes. It was sure enough bothering her now.

Tossing aside her buckskin gloves, she pulled her red handkerchief out of her hip pocket—no lace kerchief tucked up her sleeve for Maizy—and wiped her eyes again, then blew her nose in a completely unladylike way. How had she let herself get this upset? And over a man, of all things.

She’d heard they were gentle, even the bulls. And she was savvy about cattle. She knew how to judge their tempers and stay clear of them when necessary.

She took a little pleasure in defying him. And it was a harmless defiance, especially if he didn’t know she was here.

Rylan bent low over his horse, coming as fast as he could on the rocky ground that rose to this bluff along the river. Was he trying to kill her? If so, he was doing a poor job of it. The bullets were missing, going way over her head. But even on her worst day, she’d never done anything to make the man killing mad. And Maizy knew, even though Rylan seemed like a mighty cranky man, that he wasn’t the type to shoot a young woman, especially not for just being annoying.

Pound for pound there was no meaner animal on the face of the earth than a grizzly. Maizy had a Colt in her holster, but a bullet wasn’t enough to bring one of these huge beasts down. Maybe a perfect shot right into the heart or brain would do it . . . but mostly . . . getting shot just made ’em mad.

Maizy saw her chance and ran. A shout and another blast of gunfire sent Maizy running straight down the grassy slope for Rylan. Her eyes locked with his and she saw horror. She thought he’d seen her, but she could tell he’d been out here riding herd and seen the grizzly. A thud from behind told her the bear was off the ledge. Another growl seemed to blow hot breath on the back of Maizy’s neck. Or maybe that was just the hair on the back of her neck standing up in pure terror.

She sure as shootin’ hoped that proved to be true.

The isolation of this place tightened like a vise around her throat.

The door swung open. Rawhide and the doc had shoved some of the jumble aside and dragged his bed into this room so Rylan could look out the window and see his barn and corral. It gave him a nice view while he fretted.

A man flirting with bankruptcy had no business thinking of a woman. Which of course hadn’t stopped him. And it was all the worse because, strange as it was to see her dressed up in manly clothes, there was no denying that the woman made a pair of britches look mighty fetching. He’d stayed away from her, and when he couldn’t, he’d hid his interest in cool words.

He snapped his attention back to the old man. “What does that mean?” “I have laid down the law, and Maizy is making some changes, aren’t you, girl?” Auggie glared over his shoulder at Maizy. “Yes, Pa.” Rylan could see that being polite really didn’t suit her. “She’s gonna give up her hoydenish ways and be a proper lady. Iffen she don’t change now, she will go on shaming me forever and never find a man that’d have her for a wife.

She tugged on her sleeves again. He could tell the dress was bothering her something fierce. Well, he could understand that. He’d’ve been mighty uncomfortable in a dress himself, and she was probably no more used to a dress than he was.

Pa cut him off. “She’s going to stay and feed you and clean this house. She’ll come early and stay late, and she’ll keep doing that until you’re well.” Maizy’s eyes locked on Pa, then shifted to Rylan. “Oh no. There’s no need for that.” Rylan definitely wanted them gone. Which was starting to irritate Maizy. The man just didn’t like her. It reminded her of how she’d sat by the river, crying like a little baby, her feelings hurt. His not liking her had led to this trouble to begin with.

Maizy swallowed hard, a motion that almost strangled her in this blasted dress, and she nodded.

They looked at each other in dismay, and she knew just what he was thinking. He wanted her gone, but he needed her. She wanted to help, but she wanted to do it wearing britches. Neither of them had a hope of getting what they wanted.

Rylan was trapped in the cabin with the woman who had destroyed his future. And she was so pretty he couldn’t think straight when she was anywhere near him.

He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see her. But, like a man who had stared at the sun too long, she was burned into his brain.

Then I can turn my attention to cleaning. It’s a fine cabin but . . . but . . .” She looked a bit lost as she studied all the clutter stacked through the cabin. “I need to knock a f-few cobwebs down.” Rylan saw about a hundred cobwebs without turning his head. “And the floor needs to be swept and scrubbed.” She had to find the floor first.

The house was here when I bought the ranch, and this clutter came with it. I’ve added my own things to the mess, and I haven’t spent a lick of time tending it. I reckon that’s pretty easy to see.

It’s hard to think of you as a Margaret. Maizy suits you.” “I doubt I’d answer to anything else.” Maizy smiled as she adjusted the cloth.

I can manage.” He grasped the fork, but his hand trembled as he tried to stab a piece of elk. “Let me.” Without asking permission, she plucked the fork away and offered him a bite of meat. He opened his mouth, most likely to say he could do it himself. Before he could fuss, she stuck the food in. He chewed, then his mutinous expression changed. “This is delicious.” Maizy smiled. “I made plenty for your cowpoke too. When he comes in, there’ll be a hot meal ready.” “He’ll be late. He’s working all the hours God made trying to keep up with a job that was too much for the two of us to begin with.

Thank you. I haven’t been able to eat much. Rawhide’s meals lean toward tough, mostly burned meat. Maybe a good meal will help me regain some strength and knit these bones a bit faster.

Maizy went to work. Knowing Rylan was watching her made her conscious of every move. She tried to stand in a more ladylike way, though heaven only knew exactly what that was. Her dress choked her a bit less when she stood straight, so she tried to think of being ladylike as a way not to strangle.

She’d do whatever Rylan asked. And if her collar strangled her, or if it was awkward scrubbing floors in a dress, then she’d remember Jesus on the cross and how He’d suffered. Then she’d compare her own meager pain and endure it quietly. A trace of peace crept through her as she prayed…

Praying should help, remembering Bible verses should help. Rylan figured he must be doing it wrong because it was only making him worry more. So he forced his thoughts from those worries and found himself watching every move Maizy made. That was another kind of madness.

Rylan tried not to share so many of his worries. She was so sympathetic it made him want to succeed all the more, and that made his fear of failing cut so deep he couldn’t stand it. Rylan wasn’t good at church attendance. He was a believer, but he found Sundays to be as demanding on a ranch as every other day, and he’d let his worship time slip.

Her sympathy was genuine. Rylan felt it all the way to his bones.

He pictured Maizy here, permanently. His. He liked the idea so much it shocked him. And then he pictured her at his side when they got thrown off the land. Rylan hated to see her go. But he knew if he talked her into staying permanently, he’d end up dragging her down with him when he failed. And that would hurt worse than broken ribs any day.

I didn’t expect you to do all this work, Maizy. You probably don’t even need to come over every day.” And that made him feel so sorry for himself. What would he do without her company?

Surely by now you’ve heard it all a dozen times.” “I like hearing about your dream though. It’s nice. Tell me again.

I’m not waiting for you or any other man to tell me anything ever again.

The truth was he’d overreacted that day because he didn’t like running into her. Sure, there was danger from wild bulls and grizzlies in the area—though Rylan hadn’t foreseen the two tangling. But the real reason it upset him to find her was she wasn’t exactly safe from him. Oh, he’d never physically harm her, but he might end up spending time with her and talking and learning all about her.

Get back to bed.” It was humiliating how easily a man could be pushed around when he had a broken leg. Rylan found himself tucked back in bed and Maizy was making breakfast before he really knew what had happened. It didn’t help that he was dizzy.

She stalked toward the door and as she swung it open, she turned back and said, “You’re not even steady on your feet. You wouldn’t last two minutes on the back of a horse, and I sure as shootin’ ain’t riding to town for the doctor. So you can just forget gettin’ that cast off today. The doctor wouldn’t agree to that fool notion anyway.

We need to settle a few things before tomorrow.” “We sure do.” Rylan suspected they wanted to talk about different things.

If he could have reached it, he’d have kicked his own backside.

And no amount of trousers and sweat-soaked shirts could change the fact that she was about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

A smile teased at his lips, but he fought it. “Can you come over here and sit down please? I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He made his way to the table and sat. Her eyes were mighty wary, but she clomped right over to him in her boots. She pulled the chair a nice, safe distance away from him, then flipped the chair around and straddled it, deliberately behaving in the least ladylike way she could manage. “All right. Let’s talk.

She remembered now exactly why she’d gone to war with him when they’d first met. He’d seen her in her britches and before he’d opened his mouth, she’d been riveted on his handsome face and masculine form. The woman in her, which had been sleeping all her life, woke up and wanted him. Every soft and feminine part of her heart was exposed and vulnerable . . . and he’d sneered. The female side of her had lived just long enough to be terribly hurt. Maizy had dug deep to keep that hurt from showing and found anger. The same thing was happening now, and she reacted in the same way.

We don’t need another way. Marrying me will solve everything.” The man wasn’t even scared, which proved Maizy had good control of herself. Surprising what a woman could do at the same time her heart was breaking.

You propose marriage with the same breath you tell me you’re ashamed of me.

She sweetened her voice to molasses. “So no, thank you. I won’t marry you. And I’d say you’re well enough to tend your own house and feed yourself, even though that’s women’s work.

Just the opposite. I’m so proud of you I could burst.

Rylan got a stubborn mule look, like he was going to demand she accept his apology and his proposal before he agreed to move. Then he looked around and said, “I think I can get up on my own. I’ll boost myself up on the back steps, then I should be able to stand from there.” Maizy stayed back. “Give it a try. You may not need my help.” “I will always need you, Maizy, and not just because I need your hard work.” They were looking right at each other. Her kneeling, him sitting. Then he smiled. “Don’t wander off.

What?” Whatever she’d expected him to say, it hadn’t been this. “One look at you in those blasted britches and I wanted you more than I wanted my ranch and my cattle and my pa’s respect. And I’ve been trying to stay away from you ever since. I kept thinking when things were good and I knew I’d made it, then I could think on things like a wife. But then, after I got hurt and it looked like I’d lose everything . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to get you to go away so when I disgrace myself and lose my ranch, I won’t drag you down with me.” “Rylan, you’re not going to lose the ranch. We’ll get the cattle ready on time.” “You mean you will. You’re saving me, Maizy.” Rylan reached out and took her other hand. “Maybe not being able to do it on my own should pinch my pride—the good Lord knows I’ve got too much of that. But right now all I can think is, I’ve been a fool not to accept the gift God put right in front of me. And I’ve shown myself to be a fool in about every way a man can.

Rylan put one hand gently over her mouth. “Yes, all that and more. That’s all because I was trying not to do this.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed the living daylights out of her.

She turned her head aside and Rylan kissed her cheek, her neck, her hair. “Say you’ll marry me. Please say yes.” What was a woman to do? She wound her arms around his neck and said, “I love you too, Rylan. A man I didn’t care about could never hurt me so badly.” He silenced her with a kiss. And when he had well and truly driven every thought out of her head, he said, “I’ll try my best to never hurt you again, but I suspect you’ll find me a trial on many occasions.” “As you will me.

Scowling, the parson said, “I find that mighty disrespectful, Miss MacGregor. Shameful, even.” Rylan stepped between Parson Alden and Maizy. “She saved this ranch and she will continue to do so until I’m well. She’s given selflessly in the finest kind of Christian service, and she’s done it wearing those britches. I won’t stand by while someone calls that kind of love and generosity shameful. You’d best apologize to her and get on with speaking those vows.” When he left, Maizy said, “My ears are still ringing from all his terrible predictions if you don’t take care.” Rylan pulled her close. “I’ll be careful. I promise. But did you notice all his talk was about work?” “Well, of course. What else would he talk about?” Rylan pulled his wife close. He kissed her soundly. As she was clinging to him, he raised his head just enough to say, “The doc didn’t say a word about overdoing a honeymoon.” Maizy’s eyes grew round. “Why, no, he didn’t.” They both laughed and began their married life finally, fully, and passionately.

He knew she was a spitfire, but she was a lot more volatile than he recalled her being. She

He clutched his hands into a ball, praying, Why, God, why? I’ve been a faithful servant and served my church well. So why do You feel the need to test me? Actually, punish would be a more apt description.

I told you he had calico fever,” he drawled in a Texas twang. “Why else would a young man mope around like a tick-fevered doggie?

Miss Princeton is . . .” He searched for a way to describe her. “Reckless.” “Reckless?” The word escaped all four men in perfect harmony. He sighed. It wasn’t like him to talk about personal matters. Drawing attention to himself was not his style. Back home in Phoenix people expected their ministers to be dignified and sedate. At age thirty, he’d served his church well. He could only imagine what his congregation would say if they knew how their esteemed leader bared his soul to a group of near strangers. “Maybe that’s not the right word but . . .” He couldn’t think of another. “She taught our church ladies to play rounders.” The eye behind the monocle never wavered from its examination of him. “Far as I know, rounders isn’t a sin. Why are you all riled up?