by Kaki Warner
“You want to know why I don’t act on my feelings?” he asked in a hard, flat voice she didn’t recognize. “I’m thirty-two years old, but I feel a hundred. I fought a war I didn’t believe in, killed kids I didn’t know, and led men I loved to their deaths. I watched my wife and son die, then buried them beside the charred remains of our home. I’ve got nothing left but regrets and lost hope, and Becky deserves better than a man just waiting out his time. That’s why I won’t ask her to stay.” He sat back, his expression bleak, his face pale except for the dusting of whiskers along his jaw. “And don’t ever ask me about it again.”
His pain was so thick it filled the room. Filled with remorse, Lottie gathered the receipts and put them in the whiskey box. Juno was a friend, too, and she wanted to help. But how? She walked to the door, then stopped and turned back. “I’m sorry for what you suffered, Juno. But I won’t give up on you.”
“Then you’re a fool.” He picked up his paper. “Go.”
She went, her thoughts in a muddle, her emotions so raw she felt abraded. She wished she could crawl back into bed, pull the covers over her head, and start the day over.
Then she caught sight of the long figure slouched on the bench outside the market and the world tilted again. “Ty!” she called, quickening her pace.
He stood as she came up the boardwalk steps, his amazing blue eyes dancing in his rough-hewn face. “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
“How could I avoid you? I didn’t know you were here.” No need to tell him she’d already picked out the dress she would wear in case he did come to town. “How long will you be here?”
“Until tomorrow. I’m escorting Congressman Palmer.”
Lottie nodded, that awkwardness rising up, stealing thoughts from her brain. He was too big. Too handsome. Too real. Why couldn’t she be flirty like Becky? “I got your letter,” she finally said.
“You didn’t write back.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. “I wish I had.”
“Then I’ll let you make up for it.”
She saw the almost-smile lurking at the corners of his wide mouth and lost her thoughts again.
“Go on a picnic with me. Anywhere you want. I’m off duty all afternoon.”
It wasn’t what she had expected him to say. It was late January. Who went on a picnic in the winter? But the idea of an afternoon away from all her fears and worries . . . an afternoon spent with Ty . . . made her heart sing. “I’d love that.”
“Good. I’ll take care of the food. Buggy or horses?”
“Horses.” Even though she had sold Rusty long ago, Lottie still rode whenever she could. “Gus, at the livery, will know which horse and tack I prefer.”
“Fifteen minutes, then?”
“I’ll be ready.”
And there it was—that smile she’d been waiting for. And suddenly everything steadied and the world felt right again.
Chapter 9
It was the perfect day for a ride. Cool yet sunny, the earth already starting to show signs of the coming spring. Compared to the panhandle, warm weather came early to east and central Texas. By February, azaleas would bud, and little more than a month after that, bluebonnets would turn the rolling hills into a carpet of blue.
But today, Lottie hardly thought of weather, or flowers, or where she’d be in a month or two. She felt freer than she had in weeks, and this moment in time was as perfect as any had ever been.
She glanced over at Ty. He rode with calm assurance, his shoulders swaying with the horse’s gait, his big hands relaxed on the reins. Athleticism, grace, and strength. Masculine beauty carved with a steel blade.
Again, she wished she could flirt like Becky could. She wished she could come up with a quip or an amusing observation that would make him laugh. She wished she had blond curls and bigger bosoms.
He caught her staring and gave her a questioning look.
And in that dumbstruck moment, while a part of her mind cast frantically about for something to say, another part realized he wasn’t assessing her bosoms, or her boring light brown hair, or the schoolgirl flush on her cheeks. Instead, he looked directly into her eyes, as if none of the rest mattered. And the smile that slowly spread across his mouth told her he liked what he saw.
She was in such trouble.
But she reveled in it. After the fears and worries of the last few days, sudden, intense joy sent her spirits soaring. With a challenging laugh, she kicked her horse into a run.
Caught off guard, Ty was slow to catch up. But seconds later, she heard him racing up behind her. She bent low over her gelding’s mane. Wind made her eyes water. Her bonnet strings tugged at her neck. The pounding of the horses’ hooves against the winter-dry ground matched the drumbeat of her heart.
She let him win, of course. She wasn’t stupid. And when they slowed to let their horses blow, she led him to one of her favorite places, where a small creek meandered through a grove of native pecan trees. In spring and summer, the grove would be cool and shady, but by fall, hard-shelled pecans would litter the ground. She and Becky had come here to gather a bushel of nuts that eventually made their way into Thanksgiving and Christmas pies. But today, the sun shone warmly through the bare branches, and what pecans remained underfoot had been broken open by hungry squirrels.
After tethering her horse to a sapling, Lottie walked over to scout the creek while Ty untied the picnic basket lashed to the back of his saddle.
The bank was dry, the grass not too tall—Lottie hoped there wouldn’t be chiggers out this early—and there was enough sun coming through the leafless branches to warm the air.
Ty walked up with the basket under one arm. “This looks like a good spot.” He kicked a few rocks and pecans shells out of the way, then looked around. “You didn’t happen to bring a blanket, did you?” When she shook her head, he pulled off his duster and spread it across the ground. “Have a seat.”
She sat. The oiled canvas still carried his scent and warmth, and as she drew it in, it created within her a sense of intimacy that made her nerves hum.
He stretched out beside her. Leaning on one elbow, his long legs crossed at the ankles, he dug through the picnic basket.
“Let me know if you get cold,” she said, feeling a slight shiver herself, although not from the chill.
He stopped digging and looked at her, those blue-flame eyes carrying invitations to sin. “If I do, will you keep me warm?”
She bit back a smile. “Sure. I’ll lend you my bonnet.”
His exaggerated sigh told her that wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for. He resumed foraging. “Not near as appealing.”
She tipped her head to see his face more clearly. “Are you flirting with me, Ranger Benton?”
He gave her a grin and a chicken leg. “I might be.”
It was a moment before she could speak. “Why?”
He bit into a roll. “Why not?”
“You’re in the Frontier Battalion. They don’t allow members to have wives.” When did watching a man swallow become so fascinating?
“Flirting’s not courting.”
Forcing herself to take a bite of chicken, she chewed thoughtfully, hoping she could get it down. And keep it down. His nearness was playing havoc with her digestion.
He seemed to suffer no such malady, having devoured the roll, a wing, a thigh, and most of another roll before she finished half the chicken leg.
“Then I guess you’ll have to explain the rules to me,” she finally managed. “I know little about flirting and even less about courting. Why would an honorable man—which I assume you are—flirt with a good woman—which I assure you I am—when he has no intention of ever marrying?”
“It’s fun.”
Oh, that smile! She took a moment to catch her breath. “And that’s all you hope for? A bit of fun?”
His smile fad
ed. He dropped the half-eaten roll and rose off his elbow. In a single unbroken movement, he grabbed the ties of her bonnet, pulled her face to within a breath of his, whispered, “That . . . and this,” and kissed her.
At first, Lottie was too stunned to move. Then she didn’t want to, fearing if she did, he might stop doing what he was doing. His first kiss had been sweet and tender. This one was more urgent . . . more involved . . . more everything. He tasted of chicken and coffee and yeasty roll. His whiskers pricked her cheek. His lips were firm, yet soft, and his tongue—oh, Lord—it was in her mouth.
Somehow her bonnet came off and cool air swept over her heated scalp. She wondered what would come off next, and if she should allow it. Then she stopped thinking altogether and sank into the heady sensation of a man’s fingers threading through her hair, his tongue sliding across her lips, his heat making her pulse pound in her ears.
When finally he lifted his head, she was breathless and reeling.
He seemed no better. He drew back, his hands falling away, his eyes riveted to her mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you on the platform when my train pulled away.”
What could she say to that? What was she to do? He was so far removed from her experience she was a bundle of unraveling nerves.
Still watching her, he leaned back on his elbow again.
Something had changed. This was no longer a lighthearted flirtation. They had moved into a different place and Lottie didn’t know where she was or how to find her bearings.
“You’re frowning,” he said, breaking the long silence. “Why? What are you thinking, Lottie?”
“I’m thinking if I’m not careful, you could break my heart, Tyree Benton.” She tried for a teasing smile, but the muscles in her face couldn’t seem to manage it.
He didn’t smile back. “Not on purpose.”
“Well.” She gave a shaky laugh and brushed a leaf from her skirt. “That makes all the difference, doesn’t it? Are there any rolls left?”
He handed her a roll and they continued to eat in silence. Lottie scoured her addled mind for something to say to dispel the sudden tension—why did words always desert her whenever he was near?—when she remembered why he had come to Greenbroke. “What’s the congressman like?”
“A politician. All hat, no head. You want this last piece of chicken?”
“No, thank you.”
So polite. So cautious. Where had the smiles gone?
He finished the chicken, then closed the basket and rose to carry it back to where his horse was tethered.
Lottie watched him, admiring the way muscles bunched and flexed beneath his shirt as he tied the basket behind his saddle. Although still young, he was already a powerful man and wore the ranger star well, with quiet authority and a calm demeanor. An honorable man, troubled by the dishonorable actions he had been forced to take. A man easy to trust. Maybe easy to love.
But he wasn’t for her.
She wasn’t the slave-over-a-hot-stove type of woman, and he’d made it clear he wasn’t the whitewashed-picket-fence type of man. Their lives were pointed in opposite directions. So why was she sitting here, watching him and wishing for something that wasn’t to be?
He unhooked the canteen strap looped over the saddle horn, then walked back and sat down beside her again. He uncorked and held out the canteen. “Water?”
She drank, trying to ignore the warm, tinny taste of it, then handed it back.
He drank, took a moment to work the cork back into the opening, then set the canteen aside. Resting his right forearm across his bent knee, he stared off past the creek to the straw-colored horizon rising to meet a low band of wispy clouds.
“Earlier, you asked why I wanted to be a ranger. It came about by chance. And it’s not a pretty story.” He waited, as if expecting—or hoping—she would tell him he needn’t go on.
She didn’t. In truth, she was desperate to know all she could about this guarded and reticent man.
Faced with her silence, he continued. “I was five when my brother rode off to join Lee’s army. The last thing he said to me was, ‘Watch over the folks while I’m gone.’ Which I did, such as I was able. Two years later, the war ended and we learned he had fallen at the Battle of Appomattox. The folks took it hard, especially Ma. Mindful of what my brother had asked of me, I did the best I could to look after them. But south Texas was a brutal place back then, and every year we lost more stock to Indians and Mexicans raiding across the border.”
He glanced over at her. Maybe to see if she was still listening, or what effect his words might be having, or if he should go on.
Moved by his loss, she reached out and touched his arm where it rested across his knee. She wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, but she sensed it was important for him to talk about it and for her to listen.
His gaze dropped to her hand. Before she could pull it away, he covered it with his own. His palm felt rough and warm against her chilled fingers. Heavy.
For a moment, he said nothing, his mind drifting away from her as he absently ran the pad of his thumb along the sensitive skin of her wrist. When he spoke again, his voice was low and gravely and his gaze stayed fixed on some point in the past she couldn’t see.
“I was fifteen when Indians tortured and killed my parents. I’d been out rounding up strays when I saw smoke. By the time I got back to the house, there was nothing left but charred timbers and their mutilated bodies hanging from a cottonwood. After I buried them, I started hunting those who had done it. I found McNelly’s Frontier Battalion instead.”
With the weight of his hand pressing her fingers against his forearm, she felt the muscles go rigid with tension. She wanted to comfort him, soothe the tautness away, bring him back from that painful time.
But he wasn’t finished.
“The rangers had been tracking me,” he went on, “thinking I was part of the band they were hunting. When McNelly realized I knew the country as well as the men they sought, he gave me a choice. Work with them, or stay out of their way and let them handle it. I couldn’t do that. I had failed my brother and left my parents unprotected. I had to make it right. So I joined the battalion. Eventually we caught the killers and I did what I had set out to do. There wasn’t a trial.”
He took a deep breath and let it go. Some of the tension left with it.
“That was almost five years ago. I stayed with McNelly for a while, but when he started brutalizing and executing prisoners, I figured I had enough blood on my hands, and transferred to another command. It’s been downhill since. First the Sam Bass fiasco, then getting wounded here last summer. Today, I nursemaid politicians.”
Finally he looked at her, and the bleakness in his eyes reminded her of Juno. “Now you know all my secrets. So tell me true, Miss Lottie. Even if I could, would you really want a man like me to court you?”
Yes. Always. “Perhaps.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze then slid her hand from beneath his. “But he’d have to ask me nicely, first.”
A foolish thing to say, but it seemed to lighten the solemn mood. Or maybe it was relief that put the spark back in his eyes. Either way, his lips tilted in a crooked half smile. “How about we start with supper, first.”
“At Lady Jane’s restaurant?”
“The best table in the house. Anything you want.”
Sadly, what she wanted wasn’t on the menu. But she smiled and hopped to her feet. “Come on then. We have to get back so I can finish my chores at the market and change clothes before we go.”
As soon as he saw her in that gold dress three hours later, Tyree knew he’d made a grave mistake. He shouldn’t have asked her to dinner. Or gone on the picnic. Or come to Greenbroke again. And he definitely shouldn’t have kissed her.
Ever since the shoot-out last summer when she’d been the only one to try to help him, he hadn’t been able to stop thin
king about her. No matter how contrary she was—like dressing him down for thinking she was a whore, and later, smirking when he’d tried to apologize, then today, pestering him about flirting and courting, and making him dredge up all that past history he’d locked safely away in a corner of his mind—he still couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. She kept him constantly off balance.
But the biggest mistake was that kiss.
He hadn’t intended to do it. It was apparent she was inexperienced. But when she looked at him in that innocent, earnest way she had, how could he not?
You could break my heart, Tyree Benton.
If he was the honorable man she seemed to think he was, he would walk away now. Instead, he stood gawking like a green kid as she glided toward him, her hair done up in fancy waves, lamplight bringing out the gold in her eyes, and that shy smile telling him she was pleased he was staring, but embarrassed by the attention, too. She would have looked good in a potato sack, but in that gold dress she was so beautiful Ty forgot all the reasons he shouldn’t have been standing there.
She’d dropped a rope on him, for certain.
“A suit!” Her eyes raked over him in a way that made hairs rise on his arms. “You look so dashing, Ranger Benton, I feel quite plain in comparison.”
Liar. She had to know how beautiful she was. And what she was doing to him with that look. And in front of the Bracketts, too. “You leave me speechless, Miss Lottie.” What are you up to?
“And yet . . .” She tilted her head to the side. He watched a wave slide across her bottom lip and nerves twitched to life all through his body. “You spoke.”
“I try.” You’ll pay, his look warned.
We’ll see, her smile answered.
They chatted with the Bracketts for a moment, then she held out her hand. “Shall we?”
But instead of tucking it under his elbow, as proper manners dictated, he took her hand in his. An inspired move. Even the Bracketts seemed impressed. He gave a slow smile and a hard squeeze. Propriety be damned.
