Zanna yelled, flipping the reins across the mules’ broad backs and jiggling the handles of the middle buster hitched to them. Kate and Betsy turned their heads to stare at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Don’t look at me like that,” Zanna ordered, pointing forward. “Look that way and get going. I knew I should have hitched up Sarge and Captain. You two are good for nothing but eating and sleeping.” The mules pawed at the overturned earth, heads down, ears flat against their heads. The pungent aroma of damp soil rose to overtake her. Zanna glanced up at the robin’s-egg-blue sky and wished one of the small clouds would cover the sun and give her a reprieve from its brutal glare. Streams of sweat ticked the curves of her waist, her lower back, and the tender skin between her breasts—all those places a lady couldn’t reach in public. Zanna wiped her forehead with her shirt sleeve and batted flies from her hot face. Perspiration ran down her legs beneath the heavy material of her pants and trickled into her boots.
