Lorraine Heath (14 page)

Wrapped in a blanket, Amelia huddled beside the crackling fire in her damp bodice and skirt. Her drenched undergarments were stretched over a rock to dry.

Night hovered around her. A million stars twinkled overhead. She could hear the waterfalls, the occasional splash of a fish, frogs croaking, and the silence of her traveling companion as he gazed into the fire, his brow furrowed. She wondered where his thoughts traveled tonight.

Based on the depths of his creases, she had a feeling he was traveling back toward a war that had catapulted him into adulthood, stolen a portion of his sight, his smiles, and his laughter.

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said quietly.

He glanced at her. “They’re not worth that much.”

“They are to me.”

A corner of his mouth crooked up, and the warmth raced through her. She’d given him that, small as it was, a halfhearted attempted at a smile that she hoped would one day brighten his life.

“Even when you aren’t asking questions, you’re asking questions,” he said.

“You don’t like questions.”

“Don’t mind the questions. It’s answerin’ ’em that I’m not fond of.”

She eased closer to him. He’d long ago stopped shielding her from the sight of his face. She couldn’t imagine him looking more perfect than he did at that moment. Nor could she imagine him asking her a question of his own free will. “Play a game with me.”

“The checkerboard is at the bottom of the river.”

“I know a game that doesn’t require a board. A simple game, really. I used to play it with my sisters. The rules are easy. You decide if you want to truthfully answer a question or take a dare. I’ll ask the questions or issue the dare.” She smiled sweetly. “The question will be something you wouldn’t want to answer; the dare something that frightens you.”

Horror swept over his face. “You call that a game?”

She slapped his shoulder. “It’s fun. We always ended up laughing. Do you want to answer a question or take a dare?”

“Neither. I’m goin’ to sleep.”

She placed her hand on his thigh, effectively halting his movements. “Humor me. I’ll go first. Ask me a question.”

“Why are you so partial to questions?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. It’s the best way to find out information. Now do you want to answer a question or take a dare?”

He looked as though she’d just set his favorite horses free. “That wasn’t hardly fair.”

She fought the urge to squeal with the realization that he would indeed play. “You have to choose your questions carefully.”

He narrowed his gaze. “I’ll take a question.”

“It’ll probably be something you don’t want to answer.”

“I don’t want to answer any of them.”

“All right.” She shifted her backside, planted her elbow on her thigh, her chin in her palm, and studied the scowling man, wondering what she could ask that would present a challenge but not scare him off. “When you cry out in your sleep, are you dreaming about the war?”

“A dream is something you want. No, I don’t dream about the war.” He looked toward the fire. “But it’s there in my head when I sleep.” He shifted his gaze back to her. “This sure ain’t like any game I ever played.”

“When was the last time you played a game … not counting checkers?”

“How many questions do you get?” She smiled. “You’re right. Your turn. I’ll take a question.” “Anything?” “Anything.”

Houston stretched out beside her and traced a finger in the dirt. He could ask her anything, and she’d answer it. Maybe she would have all along, but asking questions was as foreign to him as giving an apology had once been. He didn’t want to parrot her, but he couldn’t think of anything to ask. “Sometimes, you whimper in your sleep. What are you thinking about then?”

“My sisters … as they were the last time I saw them.”

“I should have figured that.”

“I don’t dream about them as much since the storm, since I told you about them. And more often when I do dream about them, I see them as they were before the war … when we played games like this. It still hurts to think about them, but it’s a different sort of hurt. A good hurt.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. What exactly is a good hurt?”

She held up a finger. “One question. Tell me the truth or take a dare.”

“A dare, I reckon. I’ve answered enough questions.”

She eased alongside him. “Kiss me as though I had no contract binding me to another.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Afraid?”

Hell, yes, he was afraid. Afraid he’d forget that she was bound to his brother. Afraid he wouldn’t find the strength to keep riding west in the morning. Afraid she’d touch the part of him that longed for softness until he couldn’t ignore it. “Unbraid your hair,” he rasped.

She sat up and draped the long braid over one shoulder. Nimbly her fingers worked the strands free. The firelight sent its red glow over her golden tresses, each strand seeming to have a life of its own as it curled over her shoulder, circled the curve of her breast, trailed down to her waist.

It was her game, her rules. He’d always been afraid not to follow the rules or to stray from the path. She ran her tongue over her lips, the innocent woman he knew turning into a temptress. Raised on an elbow, he threaded his fingers through her hair and pulled her mouth down to his.

She released a sound, more of a mewl than a whimper, her lips parting slightly in invitation. He didn’t have to be asked twice.

Rolling her over, he slipped his tongue into her mouth and relished the feel of heaven.

Amelia ignored the hard ground below her, and welcomed the firm man above her. His fevered kiss curled her toes as she rubbed her foot along his calf. Groaning, he slipped his knee between her thighs, and she arched up against him.

He tore his mouth from hers, his breathing labored as he laid his bristly cheek against hers. “Don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t,” he rasped as he brought his mouth back to hers.

She thought his hot mouth might devour her, and she didn’t care. She had embraced Dallas’s dreams, but now she wanted more. She wanted love; she wanted to feel the sunrise in a kiss, the glow of a full moon in a touch, the warmth of the fire in a caress.

His questing mouth gentled, but his fingers tightened their hold.

“God, I want to touch you,” he said in a husky voice as he trailed his mouth along the column of her throat.

“Then do.”

He chuckled low. “Woman, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“But I know what I need. I need you to touch me.”

Houston surged to his feet, stormed to the spring, and leaned against a rock. “You don’t know anything. If I touch you the way I want, I’ll destroy every dream you came here to find.”

“We could build new dreams together.”

He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the hope in her voice. “You came here to start a new life. Dallas can give you that.”

She sat up. “You could give me that.”

“It’s not my place. Dallas asked you, damn it. He built you a huge house and changed his brand. He can give you everything that I can’t, everything you deserve … everything I’d want you to have. I can only give you rags, loneliness, and nightmares.”

* * *

Amelia bundled up her damp clothes and stuffed them into a saddlebag. Dawn had been clear and should have filled her with joy, not despair. She had lain within Houston’s arms, but he had somehow distanced himself from her. She wasn’t even certain he’d slept.

He shook out the blanket, laid it over the fire, then quickly flicked it back. Black smoke spiraled into the air. He repeated his actions.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Letting Dallas know we’re here.”

Amelia’s heart slammed against her ribs. “We’re that close?”

He rose from his crouched position, crossed the small expanse of space separating them, and touched his rough palm to her cheek, holding her gaze. “We’re that close.”

“Last night was good-bye?”

“It was supposed to be. I couldn’t think of the right words to use. You deserve prettier words than I can give you.”

Reaching around her, he grabbed the canteens, walked to the spring, and began filling them.

As though she were ensconced in a dream, Amelia walked to the spring and knelt on his left side, her way of showing him that she didn’t care if he was scarred, if he was imperfect. “I love you.”

He continued his task as though she’d said nothing at all. Perhaps it was best. If he had acknowledged her feelings, she might have found it harder to honor the contract she’d signed.

“Houston?” She placed her hand on his arm.

He twisted around, meeting her gaze, his expression somber. She extended his hat toward him. “You’ll want this back.”

He took her offering, but didn’t settle it onto his head. “Yeah, I reckon I will.”

With a feather-light touch, she trailed her fingers around his patch. He went as still as stone. If he wouldn’t accept her declaration of love, she’d give him something easier to accept, another version of the truth.

“When I began this journey, I cared for Dallas,” she said quietly. “I still do. Only I’ve come to care for you more.”

“That’s because you’ve been with me for a while. Once you’ve spent some time with Dallas, your feelings will change back to what they were.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I’ll take you back to Georgia.”

She shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want to go back to Georgia.”

“Then give Dallas a chance.”

“Do you care for me at all?”

He touched his knuckles to her cheek. “More than I have any right to.”

H
ouston saw the cloud of gray dust billowing in the distance, the riders shimmering against the afternoon sun. If he weren’t on Dallas’s land, he might have felt a measure of panic, but he was certain Dallas would have had his men out patrolling the area where he expected them to ride in. Besides, he recognized the black wide-brimmed hat that was his brother’s trademark, ordered special from the Stetson factory in Philadelphia. He didn’t know of any other man in the area with a hat brim that wide.

He drew the mule to an ungainly stop. He wished he’d had time to tame one of the mustangs, but his method of taming a horse was slower than his method of capturing them. He didn’t relish meeting his brother with a mule beneath him. He nearly snorted at the odd timing of his pride. His pride. His father had first beat it out of him. Then the war had buried it in an unmarked grave. Amelia brought Sorrel to a graceful halt. Houston couldn’t stop himself from engaging in a moment of self-indulgence, of watching her from beneath the shadows of his hat. She was one hell of a horsewoman as far as he was concerned, an even finer lady. She’d do Dallas proud.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked.

Reaching over, Houston unwrapped the canteen from her saddlehorn and handed it to her. “Riders.”

She cupped her hand over her furrowed brow and gazed into the distance. He thought of a hundred things he should say to her at this moment before she left his side, never to return.

But he held his silence because it was easier, so much easier. Or at least it should have been easier. For the first time in his life taking the easy way seemed damn hard.

He watched the column of her throat lengthen as she tilted her head back and drank deeply from the canteen. Several strands of her hair had worked their way free of her braid and the prairie breeze whipped them around her face. Her dress was soiled, her feet bare, her face kissed by the sun.

He thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

She handed the canteen back to him, worry etched within her eyes.

“The man riding in the front, the one wearing the black hat, is Dallas,” he said.

She nervously combed her hair back. “I look a mess.”

“You look beautiful.”

He swung his gaze away from her, and Amelia wondered what it was she had briefly seen reflected in his face. Regret? Loneliness? He wore each one closely woven together, like a layered second skin.

The land surrounding her was vast, as vast as her future, her dreams. The man with whom she’d agreed to share both rode toward her. She wrung her hands together, her trepidation increasing. “I didn’t expect to meet him with an audience.”

“It’s just his trail hands. Imagine he had them out lookin’ for us.”

The pounding of hooves intensified as the riders neared, a tide of dust rolling behind them. Then a deafening silence roared around Amelia as the men brought their horses to a staggering halt, as though they’d slammed against a brick wall. The horses snorted and whinnied, prancing before her. The men simply stared, slack jawed.

The man who had been in the lead removed his hat, and Amelia was struck hard by his handsome features. His black hair was cut shorter than Houston’s, trimmed evenly, and indented where his hat had pressed against it. His thick black mustache draped around full lips that she longed to see shaped into a smile. His brown eyes scrutinized her as they slowly traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her tiniest toe. She fought the urge to squirm in her saddle, wishing she’d at least gone to the trouble to work her feet into her shoes.

Slowly, each of the six men surrounding him removed their hats as though in a trance, their mouths gaping open, their solemn gazes riveted on her. Only the young man who had ridden beside Dallas seemed comfortable with the sight that greeted them, his grin broad, his eyes the mesmerizing blue of the hottest flames writhing within a fire.

Dallas dismounted and, with a pronounced limp, walked toward Sorrel, his gaze never leaving Amelia. He grabbed the reins when the horse shied away, and Amelia sensed that his one movement left no doubt in the horse’s mind who had just become his master.

“Miss Carson, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” he said, his voice rich with confidence, his stance bold as though he knew no one and nothing could topple him from the mountain of success he’d climbed.

He was all that she’d expected. He wore self-assurance the way Houston wore his duster. She touched her braid. “A raccoon ran off with my hat.”