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She was minding the counter in her stepfather's store, stuffing logs in the little stove; outside, the cold morning air was as brittle as glass. The day was like any other of late, with rinds of frost on the windowpanes and one or two customers who still had any money left to spend walking up and down the wide-planked aisles as they browsed the shelves. And then she heard it: the steady rattle of musketry, brisk commands, the ringing clatter of a horse's hooves over frozen, crusty cobbles.
A flash of scarlet passed just outside. Tossing the last log into the stove, Juliet rushed to the window and, with the heel of her hand, cleared a spot in the frosty pane. And there he was, sitting high atop his horse, his coattails splayed over the animal's powerful brown haunches, his fair hair queued with a black bow beneath his tricorn — a King's officer, capable and dashing, reviewing his troops on Boston Common.
Her hand went to her suddenly fluttering heart. She'd thought a handsome man in uniform was just that — a handsome man in a uniform — but this one was different. His red tunic stood out against the fresh snow like the plumage of a cardinal, and even from a distance of some fifty feet she could see that he was well-bred, untarnished, something special. Back as straight as a steeple. White-gloved hands firm but gentle on the reins. A man above squalor, above indecency, above common, everyday things. From the elegance of his leather smallclothes to the sword at his thigh, from the whiteness of his breeches to the glossy mirror of his boots, he'd been a gentleman. A god. She couldn't have cared less whether he was a soldier or a colonial. She couldn't have cared less about anything. She had fallen in love. Right then, and right there....
"Fancy that, the troops parading in our common as though they own the place. Pompous asses! Despicable louts!"
Old Widow Murdock, one of the customers in the store that morning, saw immediately what had caught Juliet's interest.
"Yes...."
"Juliet? I'd like a half-dozen eggs. Mind you give me the brown ones, not the white this time. And no cracked shells, ye hear? Juliet! Are you listening to me? Juliet! ...."
The Wild One Page 8