Lorraine Heath (39 page)

The boy’s insight caught Austin off guard, although he certainly admired it. “Yep. He cut his hoof on a rock. Your folks around?”

The boy gave a brisk nod. “And my brother. I’d feel a sight better if you’d take off the gun.”

Austin untied the strip of leather at his thigh and slowly unbuckled the gun belt. Cautiously removing the holster, he laid the weapon on the ground, his gaze circling the area. He wondered where the rest of the family was working. He could see no fields that needed tending or cattle that needed watching. He saw the boy’s fingers tighten their hold on the rifle. He smelled the aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafting through the open door of the house. “Something sure smells good.”

“Son-of-a-gun stew.”

“Think you could sneak me a bowl if I finish chopping that wood for you?”

The boy shifted his gaze to the wood scattered around an old tree stump, then looked back at Austin. “What’s your business in Austin?”

“Looking for someone.”

“You a lawman?”

“Nope. My horse is hurt. I’ve been walking longer than I care to think about. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. I can chop that wood twice as fast as you can, and I’m willing to do it for one bowl of stew. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Slowly, the boy relaxed his fingers and lowered the rifle. “Sounds like a fair trade.”

Rolling his sleeves past his elbows, Austin strode to the tree stump. Ignoring the snarling dog that lumbered in for a closer inspection of his boots, Austin picked up the ax, hefted a log onto the stump, and slammed the ax into the dry wood. He stifled a moan as fiery pain burst across his back. When he reached his destination, his first order of business would be to find a doctor.

“I’m gonna take your gun,” the boy said hesitantly. “And your rifle.”

“Fine. There’s a Bowie knife in the saddlebags.” He didn’t begrudge the boy his caution, but he longed for the absolute trust he’d once taken for granted. Hearing the boy’s bare feet fall softly over the ground as he walked to the house, Austin glanced over his shoulder. The boy had grabbed his saddlebags as well!

Austin glared at the dog. “Your master ain’t too trusting, is he?”

The dog barked. Austin heaved the ax down into the wood, wondering if he was wasting his time traveling to the capital city. For all he knew, he could just be spitting in a high wind. If he had any sense, he’d head home and try to rebuild a life that never should have been torn down.

But stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him the luxury of turning back. His family believed he was innocent. Becky knew he was innocent. But the doubts would forever linger in everyone else’s minds.

When he had split and stacked enough wood to last the family a week, he ambled to the house, dropped to the porch, and leaned against the beam that supported the eave running the width of the house. The dog strolled over, stretched, yawned, and worked its way to the ground near Austin’s feet.

“Changed your mind about me, did you?”

Lifting its head, the dog released a small whine before settling back into place. Austin was sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep. Instead, he looked toward the horizon, where the sun was gradually sinking behind the trees. While serving his time, he’d hated to see the sun go down. He had hated the night. Loneliness had always accompanied the darkness.

“Here’s your meal,” the boy said from behind him.

Austin glanced over his shoulder, his outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination. The air backing up in his lungs, he slowly brought himself to his feet. The crumpled hat and shabby jacket were gone. So was the boy. The britches and bare feet were the same, but everything else had changed.

“What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asked.

Austin could have named a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinched the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat they glittered a tawny gold.

He tore his hat from his head and backed up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”

A tentative smile played across lips that reminded him of the first strawberry in spring, so sweet a man’s mouth watered before he ever had the pleasure of tasting it.

“It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides, there’s usually no one around to notice.”

“What about your family?”

A wealth of sadness plunged into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.

” So they were “around,” as she’d told him, but not in a position to help her. She extended the bowl toward him.

“Here. Take it.”

He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers. They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.

“Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth. He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron. He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt heat suffuse his face. “My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”

Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistook that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?

He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.

He saw a flash of dung-colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area.

“I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”

Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he could have mistaken her for a boy. Her hand held his lightly, but he still felt the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two but clean. And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.

She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her fingers to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”

Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”

She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.

He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”

“For what?” she whispered.

“Murder.”

He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have been surprised had she run into the house for her rifle. Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, studying him as though she sought some secret long buried.

“How long were you in prison?” she finally asked. “Five years.”

“That’s not very long for murder.” “It’s long enough.”

She released her hold on his hand and his gaze as she eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”

He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed toward the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.

She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.” The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes he looked at Austin. “Digger?” Austin asked.

She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”

“Austin. Austin Leigh.”

“I thought that’s where you were headed.”

“It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”

“Must get confusing.”

“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty years.” He returned his attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling at women had brought such pleasures.

“I’m Loree Grant.”

“I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Grant.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl.

“Do you want more stew?” she asked.

“If you’ve got some to spare.”

She rose, took his bowl, and walked into the house. A wave of dizziness assaulted Austin. He grabbed the edge of the porch and breathed deeply.

“Are you all right?”

He glanced over his shoulder. She stood uncertainly on the porch, the bowl of fresh stew in her hand. He bought himself to his feet, afraid what he’d already eaten wasn’t going to stay put. “Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering … with night closing in … if you’d mind if I bedded down in your barn.”

Wariness flitted through her golden eyes, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“ ’Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns if it’ll help you feel safer. I won’t need them tonight. In the morning before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.”

He strode toward Black Thunder, hoping he could get the horse settled before he collapsed from exhaustion.

He didn’t have the eyes of a killer. Loree repeated that thought like a comforting litany as she sat cross-legged on her bed, the loaded rifle resting across her lap, her gaze trained on the door.

Five years ago, she’d looked into the eyes of a killer. She knew them to be ruthless and cold. Austin Leigh’s eyes were neither. She shifted her attention to the fire burning in the hearth. In the center, where the heat burned the hottest, the writhing blue flames reflected the color of his eyes. Eyes that mirrored sorrow and pain. She wondered if any of the creases that fanned out from the corners of his eyes had been carved by laughter.

Hearing thunder rumble in the distance, she hoped the storm would hold off until he’d left, but she thought it unlikely. The clock on the mantel had only just struck midnight.

The barn roof had more holes than the night sky had stars. Still, it would offer him more protection than the trees. And he probably had a slicker. All cowboys did, and he certainly looked to be a cowboy. Tall and rangy with a loose-jointed walk that spoke of no hurry to be anywhere.

The rain began to pelt the roof with a steady staccato beat. She cringed. The nights were still cool, but he hadn’t asked for additional blankets or a pillow, and he couldn’t build a fire inside the barn. She cursed under her breath. He wasn’t her worry. He was a murderer, for God’s sake.

If only he had the eyes of
a
murderer. Then she could stop worrying about him and worry more about herself. If only his eyes hadn’t held
a
bleakness as he’d spoken of prison. She wondered whom he had killed. If he’d had good reason to murder someone.

She tightened her fingers around the rifle. Did any reason justify murder? She had asked herself that question countless times since the night the killer had swooped down on them. The answer always eluded her. Or perhaps only the answer she wanted eluded her.

She slid off the bed and walked to her hope chest. She knelt before it and set the rifle on the floor beside her. She ran her hand over the cedar that her father had sanded and varnished to
a
shine for her fourteenth birthday. For three years she had carefully folded and placed her dreams inside … until the night when the killer had dragged her to the barn. Her dreams had died that night, along with her mother, her father, and her brother.

The rain pounded harder. The wind scraped the tree branches across the windows. The thunder roared.

She lifted the lid on the chest for the first time since that fateful night. Forgotten dreams beckoned her. She trailed her fingers over the soft flannel of a nightgown. She had wanted to feel delicate on her wedding night, so she had embroidered flowers down the front and around the cuffs. She had tatted the edges of her linens and sewn a birthing gown for a child that she now knew would never be.

The killer had charged into her life with the force of a tornado. He had stolen everything, and when she’d tried to regain a measure of what he’d taken—he had delivered his final vengeance. With one laugh, one hideous laugh that had echoed through the night, he had shattered her soul.

She slammed down the lid and dug her fingers into her thighs. She had no future because the past kept a tight hold on her present.

She rose to her feet, walked to the hearth, and grabbed the lantern off the mantel. Using the flame from the lamp, she lit the lantern. She jerked her slicker off the wall and slipped into it, calling herself a fool even as she did it. Then she walked to the corner and pulled two quilts from the stack of linens. Digger struggled to his feet, his body quivering from his shoulders to his tail.

“Stay!” she ordered. His whine tore at her heart. The dog could get his feelings hurt more easily than the town spinster. Loree softened her voice. “I’ll come back, but there’s no sense in both of us getting wet.” She stepped outside. Lighting streaked across the obsidian sky. Rain pelted the earth. The barn was as black as a tomb. She couldn’t remember if she’d left a lantern in the barn. She shivered as memories assailed her.

Satan had arisen from the bowels of Hell and made their barn his domain. It had been raining that night as well, and the water had washed their blood into the earth.

She pressed back against the door. She hadn’t gone into the barn since. Her mouth grew dry, her flesh cold. So cold. As cold as the death that had almost claimed her.

Austin Leigh wasn’t her worry, but the words rang hollow. Her mother would have invited him into the house, would have provided him with shelter and warmth. Her mother’s innocent words flowed through her, “There are no strangers in this world, Loree. Only friends we haven’t yet met.”