Texas Bride

by Leigh Greenwood

  Now she got angry at herself for being so self-critical. She wasn't a beauty, but she was intelligent, a capable conversationalist, and honest. She was willing to work hard for what she got. She was a loyal and dependable friend, a patriotic Texan, and a foe of thieves and bullies. And she had every reason to believe that William was only waiting to announce their engagement until he could talk to his parents.

  When he had first appeared to show an interest in her, she'd thought she was mistaken, that it was folly to expect him to want to marry a woman like her. But his interest had lasted so long, people in town were aware of it.

  There was no reason for her to allow Owen to upset her. Nevertheless, she experienced a tremendous feeling of relief when she heard footsteps on the porch. She jumped up and nearly ran to the front door. The smile on her lips froze, the greeting caught in her throat, when the door opened and Owen entered the hallway.

  "I can tell by your face they haven't returned."

  "I was just surprised to see you back so early."

  "You were shocked." He closed the door and followed her to the parlor.

  "I thought you'd be home much later and in an unsuitable condition." His clothes smelled of whiskey and cigar smoke. She turned when she heard him laugh.

  "I enjoy having a drink, but I hate being drunk."

  "That's an admirable attitude."

  "But not enough to redeem me in your sight."

  She didn't know why his wanting her to think well of him, and her not being able to, should bother her.

  "You'll leave soon," she said. "After a couple of weeks you won't remember my name."

  He hadn't entered the parlor but leaned against the door frame. When she resumed her seat and looked up, she found him regarding her in a manner she found vaguely uncomfortable.

  "I may leave, but I'll never forget you."

  "You sound quite sincere."

  "I am." His expression grew even more indecipherable. "And I'm just as surprised as you."

  Hetta didn't see how he could look and sound so genuine and be lying. Maybe he meant something altogether different from what she was thinking. She heard a woman's laughter, and a man's voice in response. Then footsteps on the porch. Owen stood away from the door frame.

  "I'd better be going."

  "Don't. I mean, you're staying here," she added when the words came out sounding like a plea.

  "Why? None of you are comfortable with me around."

  "We'll have to learn to be if you buy a ranch in the area, won't we?"

  She didn't know why she was talking such nonsense, but the front door opened and she was spared having to explain herself. Or face Owen's uncomfortably penetrating gaze.

  "It was sweet of you to wait up for me," Ida said as she came in.

  "You didn't remember to take your key."

  Ida laughed. Hetta couldn't tell if it sounded coquettish or embarrassed.

  "William would have had to go around the back and knock on your window."

  William flushed, and Hetta found herself feeling impatient at his unnecessary modesty.

  "It's a good thing you didn't," Owen said. "It would probably have ended up terrifying her."

  "Men don't normally go around knocking on women's windows during the night," William said. "She would know it was some kind of emergency."

  "Like Ida's having to rush off to her uncle's house tonight," Owen said.

  "Uncle Fred wanted to talk business," Ida said. "He knows I don't understand commerce, so he wanted William to explain things to me."

  "The rustling has gotten so bad, hardly anyone can pay their debts," William said. "We're better off than most, but Pa says things weren't this bad during the war. He said it might be worth putting up with the Reconstruction if it means the army would get rid of the rustlers."

  "You could get rid of the rustlers yourself," Owen said.

  "We've already tried," William said.

  "What did you do?"

  "If you're going to discuss rustlers, I'm going to bed," Ida announced. "Come on," she said to Hetta. "Mr. Wheeler can lock up after William leaves."

  "I can't stay," William said. "Mother can't sleep until she knows I'm home."

  "She's such a sweet woman," Ida said. "No wonder you love her so much."

  Beulah Tidwell had many strong points. She was hardworking, dependable, efficient, had a mind for detail, and could remember who'd bought nearly every item that had passed through the Tidwell stores, but no one could call her sweet. She tolerated no familiarity and was always too busy to gossip over coffee or help with the church social.

  William muttered something about it being late, about being tired after a long day, and left.

  "I'm surprised to see you home so early," Ida said to Owen while looking inquiringly at Hetta.

  "I thought Miss Gwynne might be lonely enough to accept even my poor company," he said, casting an amused glance at Hetta.

  "I'd prefer that you not seek Hetta's company when I'm not at home," Ida said. "It's not suitable for a woman about to be married."

  "He just came home, Ida. He wasn't seeking me out."

  "It's still not good for your reputation."

  "How can sitting in a formal parlor talking with a lodger damage her reputation?" Owen asked.

  "No woman is entirely safe with a stranger. Besides, it worries William to know you're here."

  "He said that?" Hetta asked, angry that he would say something like that to Ida rather than to her.

  "Not exactly," Ida admitted, "but I can see it in his eyes. He's such a thoughtful man. Now I'm tired, so I'm going to bed."

  "Very good," Owen said to Hetta when the door closed behind Ida.

  "What do you mean?" Hetta asked.

  "I was beginning to think you were either stupid or gutless. Glad to see I was wrong on both counts."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't want to know." She turned the key in the lock and put it on the hook. "Now I'm going to bed."

  Owen laughed softly.

  "What are you laughing at?" she asked.

  "You. You're really quite charming. It's not a conventional charm, but it's charm nevertheless."

  "I never thought anyone could talk more nonsense than my father, but you've got him beat by a mile. Go to bed and dream of your new ranch."

  His smile died. "I'd rather dream of hanging Laveau diViere."

  That thought sent shivers down Hetta's spine. She had let his smile, his attention, cause her to forget his harsh intention. That alone was reason to dislike him.

  Why didn't she?

  The farm was like so many others they'd stopped at over the last three years. The genuine though uneasy welcome was no different from their welcome yesterday and the day before. But the oldest daughter was the prettiest he'd seen in a year. She could hardly wait to tell him she was seventeen, that she didn't have to blush and hold back around the soldiers, not even soldiers with such a fearsome reputation as the Night Riders. He asked about the coolest spot to bed down. She told him it was the orchard. He asked her to show him the way. She said he was a handsome flirt. He grinned and agreed. Cade had given strict orders that they go to sleep immediately, but the girl was too pretty, too vivacious and entrancing.

  "What's your name?" he asked as they rounded the corner of the stone farmhouse and headed toward an orchard of peaches, apples, pears, and cherries. A grape arbor looked very inviting, but several men were already asleep in its deep shade. Trellises of several kinds of berries were placed on the far side of the orchard.

  "Rachelle," she replied. "Do you like it?"

  "It's very pretty. Like you."

  He'd never met anyone so full of laughter. She was like sunshine itself. He knew he shouldn't do anything to touch her heart, but he couldn't resist her any more than a bear could resist honey.

  "I bet you tell every girl you meet the same thing."

  "Just the pretty ones."

  She skipped ahead, turned around to face him. "Mama warned me
about men like you."

  "What did she say?"

  "That I was to run."

  "Are you going to run away?"

  She laughed again. It was an intoxicating sound.

  "Not yet. I want you to tell me about the places you've been, the things you've seen."

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "I've spent my whole life on this farm. I feel like I don't know anything, that there's all kinds of wonderful things out there I know nothing about. Tell me about them."

  He thought of the war and the ugliness that it had brought to so many people; it seemed to have left her miraculously untouched. It wouldn't hurt if he painted a glorious picture for her, made her believe the world outside her valley was as wonderful and magical as a mythical kingdom. After the war, she'd marry some farmer, settle down, and live her whole life without leaving the valley.

  "What do you want to know?" he asked.

  "Tell me about the clothes beautiful ladies wear."

  "Clothes. I wish they didn't, but they do."

  She swatted him playfully and laughed. "You're awful."

  "I know. Isn't it wonderful?" He would do virtually anything to make her laugh. No sound had ever made him feel so good, so at peace with himself.

  "My friend went to Alexandria last year. She described the most wonderful dresses."

  Owen couldn't imagine any farmer's daughter catching so much as a glimpse of the really wealthy women. "I'm sure there are even more wonderful things than what she saw."

  "Tell me. Please, tell me."

  He opened his mouth to describe a dress of his imagination, but a curse came out instead. His cousin was headed toward him, and he didn't look pleased.

  "What's wrong?" Rachelle asked, her smile gone.

  "That's my commanding officer," he said, pointing to the man coming toward them. "He disapproves of flirting."

  "He should. It's wrong."

  "Do you hate it so much?" He chucked her under the chin, and grinned until she laughed again.

  "Not when you talk about clothes."

  "You're supposed to be resting up for our ride tonight," Cade said, "not trying to seduce every female within reach."

  Rachelle blushed and turned away. Owen reached out to take her by the wrist, his face tight with anger. "You don't have to worry about me," he said to Cade.

  "I have to worry whether we'll be less welcome than the Yankees if you can't keep your hands off every woman in the valley."

  Rachelle succeeded in breaking away. She picked up a fallen, partially rotten peach, threw it at Owen, then started running toward the house, her laugh as joyous as her eyes were bright.

  "I don't need your sanctimonious preaching," Owen shouted at Cade.

  "You're part of my command, and as such--"

  At that moment, a cannonade of gunfire broke out all around them. Men on horseback crashed through the orchard. Owen looked up to see Rachelle throw up her hands and fall to the ground.

  "You son of a bitch!" Cade shouted as he propelled Owen toward the cover of the barn. "You got that girl killed."

  Chapter Eight

  Owen jerked awake, his nightshirt soaked with sweat, his soul filled with guilt and horror at what he'd done, his mind reeling with the picture of Rachelle lying on the ground, her bright yellow dress just visible through the tall grass.

  He sat up and dropped his head into his hands. He was weary of the dream, weary of the guilt, weary of the self-loathing. He had never intended that girl any harm, but he couldn't ignore an attractive woman.

  However, something was different this time. He had turned his attention to Hetta rather than Ida. Maybe it was because he felt Hetta was somehow involved in Laveau's rustling.

  He didn't want her to be involved. That was different, too. Usually he didn't want a woman to have a particularly good character, but he didn't feel that way about Hetta. He even wanted to save her from marrying William!

  Then why had he spent half the evening trying to get Hetta to fight Ida for William? Because he couldn't stand to lose a woman to another man, or to lose at anything. Even if he didn't want what was at stake. He had to be top dog, and anybody he liked had to be top dog. He liked Hetta, so he couldn't stand to see her be so blinded by friendship that she'd let Ida steal William away from her. If she married William, she'd have a husband who could support her comfortably and give her the solid, dependable life she craved.

  Yet though he couldn't stand to watch Hetta lose William to another woman, he couldn't accept the idea of her marrying him either. This was crazy, and he knew it. He had no business interfering in Hetta's life. He didn't know why he should care so much, but he did. It was as if she was his sister and he was looking out for her.

  But it didn't feel like that. He could only conclude he was interested in Hetta as a person. That had never happened before, and he didn't know what to make of it. They had nothing in common. They argued over everything.

  Did her plainness make him think about her differently from other females? Maybe, but he didn't think she was all that plain. She didn't have a bow-shaped mouth, dimpled cheeks, or peaches-and-cream skin, but there was a certain attractiveness in her strength. He liked the way she faced him directly, her gaze open and forthright.

  At least he thought that was the way he felt. It all depended on whether she was in cahoots with Laveau. How could she be? She believed so strongly in the good in everybody, she wouldn't have seen the evil in Laveau unless somebody pointed it out.

  As he got up to change his nightshirt, he decided to put Hetta out of his mind. He had work to do, and he couldn't afford any distraction. But even as he went back to sleep, he found himself wishing Hetta wasn't so trusting. She'd already had more than her share of bad luck. And unless he did something, she was in for more.

  "You talk too much," Lester Benham complained. "Just play cards."

  "I did," Owen said, pointing to his discard. "I'm waiting for you."

  For the last three days Owen had spent most of his time in the saloon, playing poker and trying to gather information about the rustling. He'd acquired a reputation as a cheerful companion and a good poker player, capable enough to win more than he lost, clever enough to keep his winnings from being too large.

  "There he is," Myrl said.

  "There who is?" asked Lester, still trying to decide which card to play.

  "Tom Manly," Myrl said. "Owen's been wanting to look over the Gwynne place, but Tom was never around."

  Owen didn't like what he saw. Manly was wearing two guns, and bullets were missing from some of the loops on his gun belt.

  "He had a big herd on the place earlier in the summer," Lester said, still debating his next move. The others had dropped out, leaving only him and Owen.

  "What happened to it?"

  "Don't make it my business to know what Manly's doing."

  "You ranchers ought to know as much as you can about each other. You ought to work together to stop the rustling."

  Lester placed his bet, Owen raised, and Lester called. He was not happy to find Owen's three deuces beat his two aces and two queens.

  "Manly says he doesn't have any rustling," Lester said, throwing his cards down in disgust.

  "I'd like to know why," Owen said.

  "Well, there's Manly at the bar. Nothing's stopping you from asking him."

  Owen figured he'd have a better chance if he got Hetta to tell Manly to show him around. Newt Howren entered the saloon and went straight to Manly. They took their drinks, retired to a corner, and were soon in earnest conversation.

  "You lost your chance," Lester said to Owen. "Newt hates your guts."

  "Is Newt Manly's boss?"

  "Naw. Newt works for Manly from time to time, though."

  "When he's gambled away all his money," Myrl said.

  "He likes to gamble?" Owen asked, wondering if this could be the opening he needed.

  "Once he sits down, he hardly ever gets up until he's broke."

  "Tell him I've go
t money and nobody to play with."

  "He's a terrible loser."

  "Maybe he can get Manly to join us."

  Myrl wasn't exactly eager to talk to Newt and Tom, but he got up and shuffled off.

  "What are you up to?" Lester asked Owen.

  "Just trying to buy a ranch."

  "You wouldn't be asking all these questions if you weren't up to something else."

  "I can't see much sense in settling here if somebody's going to make off with my stock."

  "So what's the point in gambling with Newt and Tom?"

  "I hear nobody rustles from the Gwynne place. Since Tom is the foreman and Newt works for him, it seems like a good idea to talk to them."

  "It makes sense when you say it that way, but I'd be careful."

  "Why?" Owen asked, giving Lester a friendly grin. He'd been receiving hints for days but nothing concrete.

  "You just said it. Nobody rustles Tom. We wondered, too, but we can't find nothing going on at his place."

  "Then he shouldn't have any reason not to let me ride over the ranch."

  "What ranch are you talking about?"

  Owen looked up to see Newt standing at his shoulder.

  "The Gwynne place. I'm looking to buy a ranch."

  "Miss Gwynne ain't interested in selling," Newt said. "You want to gamble, or you going to talk?"

  Owen gestured at the pile of coins in front of him. "I'm looking to gamble until my luck runs out. Or your money."

  "If our money runs out first, your luck will be out at the same time," Newt said.

  "Stick around," Owen said to Myrl and Lester. "I don't want anybody thinking I got aces up my sleeves."

  Myrl grinned and dropped into a chair next to Owen. "You couldn't run me off," he said. Lester looked undecided before nodding his agreement.