“B.”
She twisted, and he called out the letters until the stem broke off at the letter I. Lydia wrinkled her nose. “I? What names begin with I?”
“Lots of names,” Grayson assured her.
“Name one,” she commanded.
Grayson looked at Abbie. She drew an absolute blank. She rolled her shoulders forward, shaking her head slightly. Grayson turned his attention back to Lydia . “Ichabod.”
Johnny guffawed. “ Lydia ’s gonna marry a man named Ichabod!”
“Ain’t neither,” Lydia said.
Abbie hated to see her daughter’s disappointment. Why couldn’t he have skipped the awkward letters? Then she brightened. “ Irwin !”
Lydia rolled her eyes, and Johnny laughed harder. Grayson smiled at her. “Good try.”
She tilted up her nose. “It’s better than Ichabod. Why would you saddle my daughter with someone named Ichabod?”
“Ivanhoe, then.”
“Ivanhoe?” Lydia repeated.
“Don’t you know the story of Ivanhoe?” Grayson asked. “He was one of the bravest knights in all of England .”
“What’s a knight?” Micah asked in his deep voice.
“A knight was a soldier of sorts and he wore armor to protect himself from the blows of a sword—”
“Is a sword like a saber?” Johnny asked.
“It’s similar, but it’s bigger and heavier…and…don’t you children go to school?”
“After the crops are in, I go for a spell. I can write my name,” Johnny said with obvious pride.
Grayson supposed in all fairness the children didn’t need to know history in order to harvest cotton, but he couldn’t imagine living without education. Dear God, but his father had given him far more than he’d realized.
“My pa was a soldier,” Johnny suddenly blurted. “He killed a thousand damn Yankees.”
“ Johnny ,” Abbie scolded. “Don’t swear and don’t stretch the truth.”
Grayson gave the boy an indulgent smile. “Did he?”
The lad averted his gaze, nodded briskly, and began to pull weeds from the ground. Grayson remembered how much he had admired his father, the tall pedestal upon which he’d placed him—and how much it had hurt when he’d toppled off, and he’d realized that his father was only a man. Johnny need never see his father topple. “Sounds as though your father was a worthy opponent. If he were English, he would no doubt have been knighted.”
Johnny jerked his head up. “I reckon so, too.” He jumped to his feet and ran toward the stream.
“Can I go, too?” Lydia asked.
With a wave of her hand, Abbie sent the two remaining children to the river, an apple in each hand.
“If you’ll watch the children, then I think I’ll take a nap,” Grayson said. There was something to be said for stretching out on a bed of clover and listening to the babble of the flowing stream. With his hands folded beneath his head, Grayson watched as clouds drifted by, barely visible through the abundant scattering of leaves above. Closing his eyes, he was beginning to have an understanding of why men had fought to claim this land.
Abbie dared a glance at Grayson. Without his intense gaze focused on her, it was much easier to apologize. She considered waiting until he began to snore, but she didn’t think an apology counted if the person it was directed to was asleep.
“I’m sorry I jerked away from you…at first, when you were trying to be a gentleman,” she said, her voice low, not certain she wanted him to hear her apology.
“No harm done.”
She tossed out the milk and put the empty jar into the wicker basket before stuffing the remaining biscuits inside. “I…I just…”
He rolled to his side and lifted up on an elbow. “You don’t owe me any explanations, Abbie.” He gave her a disarming smile. “I wasn’t trying to be a gentleman. I was searching for an excuse to touch you.” He reached toward her, and she thought he might touch his finger to her cheek, but he retreated. “You’re quite right not to trust me.”
“It’s not you so much…It’s…” She studied the wrinkles in her apron, thinking how her life seemed as untidy. She smoothed out her apron. “I was sixteen when I married John . I wanted to marry him, to be his wife, to take care of his house…” She felt the heat scald her cheeks as she kept her gaze averted. “I didn’t know…everything a wife does for her husband.”
The incredible silence stretched between them, blocking all sounds until she no longer heard the children. Why had she told him that embarrassing truth?
“Did you love him?” he asked quietly.
She wrung her hands in her lap. “He was my husband.”
“But you didn’t love him.”
She felt the tears burn the backs of her eyes. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips and shifted her gaze to him. “I tried…but I just couldn’t.”
His blue eyes darkened with concern. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “He was a good man. And wise. He knew when to plant the cotton. You see, you don’t plant it at the same time every year. You have to be able to read the weather, and the moon, and the signs of nature. You compare that with the almanac. No one planted a crop until John Westland began to plant his.”
“He sounds like a remarkable man.”
Turning, she looked at her children. “I should have loved him.”
“You respected him, admired him—that’s much more than some men get.”
She met his gaze. “Is it? It hardly seems enough. I think of him dying with no one loving him—”
“In England , among the nobility, marriages are seldom a love match. My father married a woman because she was his social equal. Her father was a duke. She was a biddable female who understood obligation. I don’t think the duke ever visited her bed once she gave him an heir.”
Abbie drew her brows together. “Where did he sleep?”
Grayson smiled. “He had his own room. It’s quite fashionable for a husband and wife to have separate rooms. Wouldn’t you have preferred to have your own room?”
She gnawed on her lip. She had never welcomed the physical joining of her husband’s body to hers, but still she had found comfort in his presence through the night. Although she had slept alone for five years now, she still huddled on the edge of the bed, recognizing the portion that her husband’s large body had claimed. A thought struck her from out of the blue. “Did you leave someone behind?”
Grayson sat up. “I beg your pardon?”
Abbie balled her fist around the hem of her apron. “Were you betrothed or married…or was there someone you cared about that you wanted to come with you?”
His smile turned melancholy. “No, but that’s an interesting way to turn the subject off you.” He picked up the apple stem that Lydia had dropped on the quilt and popped it into his mouth.
“You don’t have to eat that. I brought plenty of apples,” Abbie said.
He shook his head. “I only want the stem,” he mumbled around the object in his mouth.
“Why?”
He pointed to his lips. “Watch.”
She stared intensely at his mouth, fascinated by the ebb and flow of his lips, lips that looked as soft as his hands had felt less than a week ago. Although he’d sealed his mouth, she could tell that something was going on. His movements caused hollows to form and recede within his cheeks. Then he placed his fingers to his mouth and removed the stem—tied into a knot.
He smiled triumphantly. “Not bad, eh?”
Dumbfounded, she couldn’t prevent herself from gawking at his accomplishment.
He leaned toward her, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You should see what else I can do with my tongue.”
“What?” she asked.
His smile faltered. “What?”
“What else do you do with your tongue?”
He scrutinized her as though she were the one who had stupidly tossed an apple stem into her mouth. What purpose did tying it into a knot
—
“You honestly don’t know to what I’m referring, do you?” he asked quietly.
“Should I?”
With a deep sigh, he tossed the knotted apple stem over his shoulder. “No, I suppose not.” He looked toward the river. “So what are the plans for the remainder of the day?”
Abbie finished putting everything into the basket, stood, shook out the quilt, and tucked it beneath her arm. “I need to cut that calico I bought yesterday into pieces for Lydia ’s dress. Henhouse needs to be cleaned, barn needs some repairs—”
Grayson jerked his head around. “I thought today was supposed to be a day of rest.”
Abbie wrapped her fingers around the handle of the basket and lifted it. “We’re not working in the fields. That’s as close to a day of rest as we get.”
6
“D id you know that if a snapping turtle bites you, it won’t let go until it hears thunder?” Johnny asked.
Trudging toward the house as the early afternoon sun beat down on him, Grayson glanced down at Johnny ’s serious face. He had eventually succumbed to the boys’ pleading and threaded a hook through a wiggling worm. It was either do that or return home where a chicken coop needed to be cleaned.
“Truly?”
“Yep.”
As he walked next to Johnny , Micah was jerking his head up and down to emphasize the truth of his brother’s words regarding snapping turtles. They had been imparting words of wisdom most of the morning.
“Once a snapping turtle bit Ezra Jones ’s grandpa right on the finger.” Johnny pointed his index finger at Grayson for emphasis. “Weren’t a storm cloud in the sky. So he took an axe and chopped off that turtle’s head.” Johnny ’s eyes widened. “And he still hung on!”
“Amazing,” Grayson conceded.
“Amazing,” Micah croaked beside him.
“You know what Ezra Jones’s grandpa did?” Johnny asked. He didn’t wait for Grayson to answer. “He chopped off his own finger!”
Grayson skewed his face into an appropriately horrified expression even though he suspected Ezra Jones’s grandfather had lost his finger through carelessness and not a desire to rid himself of a turtle’s head. “I shall take great care to never place my finger near a snapping turtle.”
“Next time we go fishin’, me and Micah will try to find a snapping turtle so you’ll know what one looks like,” Johnny offered.
“Perhaps next time, we should try fishing later in the day,” Grayson suggested as they reached the edge of the woods. “I’m certain fish are practical creatures that arise at a decent hour.”
Johnny ’s face split into a wide grin. “You don’t like gettin’ up early, do you?”
“Not particularly.”
“What did you do all day before you come here?” he asked.
Ah, God, what had he done? “Well, I might visit with friends or take a ride through a park—”
“What’s a park?” Micah croaked.
Grayson spread out his hands. “Within the city, it’s a place with trees and flowers, a place where people stroll or ride in a carriage—don’t you have parks here?”
Both boys simply stared at him.
“Of course not,” he mumbled. “Whatever was I thinking.”
“It’s a lot different here, ain’t it?” Johnny asked.
“Yes, lad, it is.”
“Do you like it here?”
The boys’ faces held such high expectations that Grayson decided to fudge a little with the truth. “It’s an adventure, and I’ve always liked adventure.”
“Me, too!” Johnny exclaimed. “But every time I try to go on an adventure, Ma comes after me and brings me back home.”
“You should be grateful that you have a mother who cares enough—”
The scream shattered the peace of the afternoon. In a frenzy, birds flew from the trees. Grayson’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“That’s Lydia !” Johnny cried.
“Indians!” Micah yelled, his raspy voice giving the word a threatening edge.
Indians! He’d read stories of renegade attacks—
“Bloody damned hell!” The fishing pole slipped from his hand as he tore into a run, heading for the farm. He heard another scream— Lydia again—followed by another frantic cry. Abbie!
Why hadn’t Abbie told him about the dangers? Why hadn’t she and Lydia stayed with them at the river? He heard the boys’ footsteps echoing his.
The house came into view, the curtains billowing through the windows like a woman waving her handkerchief to get a man’s attention. The horses were prancing around the corral—but where were the Indians? Where was Abbie?
Another shriek sounded—from near the barn. Grayson grabbed a pitchfork that was leaning against the front wall of the barn and rounded the corner with a heathen yell that would have done his medieval ancestors proud.
And froze, staring at the tableaux in front of him. Abbie was sweeping hogs.
At least that was his initial impression. With a broom, she had been patting the backside of a hog before she stilled and stared at him as though he were a madman.
He felt like a bloody damned fool!
He lowered the pitchfork until the prongs dug into the ground. A mistake. The hog she’d been swatting now had no guidance so it turned abruptly and charged—toward him.
He had seen the hogs in the pen, but outside of their enclosure, they looked enormous; their grunts and squeals sounded frightening. This one was snorting until it sounded like a bloody train barreling down the tracks.
He tossed the pitchfork aside and was on the verge of saving his ass when Abbie cried, “Catch it!”
“With what?” He had no time to think, little time to react. He simply flung himself at the charging beast, wrapping his arms around its thick neck. It squealed loudly, right near his ear, and he was certain he’d lose his hearing on that side. Then the damnable beast reared up as much as its portly body would allow before rolling onto its side, pinning Gray beneath it. The air rushed out of him in a painful whoosh, and he wondered if the duke would feel any remorse when he received word that Grayson had died—squashed by an immense sow.
The duke’s heir apparent would no doubt laugh his fool head off.
Then an angel swept down with a vengeance, mud caking her cheeks, strands of hair flying wildly about her face, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath, her violet eyes wide with fury.
“Get off him, you stupid hog!” she yelled, bringing the broom down on the beast’s back.
The animal jerked its massive frame, snorted, and rolled to its feet. In an agonizing rush, air filled Grayson’s lungs. He watched the hog trot toward the pen, Abbie chasing after it, applying the broom repeatedly to its backside.
Grayson struggled to his feet and staggered to the pen, still fighting for breath, wondering if he’d broken a rib. The hog went into the pen and abruptly did an about-face.
“No, you don’t!” Grayson roared as he blocked the animal’s path, dropped to his knees, and flung his arms once again around the hog’s neck. With a twist, it slid free. Before he could catch his balance, Grayson found himself lying face-down in the mud. He heard the hog snort, followed by the loveliest sound to ever touch his ears.
Abbie’s laughter.
He pushed up to his elbows, used his fingers to drag the mud from his eyes, and glanced back. Her shoulders rolling forward, she pressed a fist against her stomach, her smile bright as the laughter trickled out like the clear water of a spring flowing over sparkling rocks.
Dear Lord, he’d never realized before how beautiful Abigail Westland truly was.
“Think it’s funny, do you?” he asked.
She bobbed her head in the same manner that Johnny often did. He glanced quickly around the pen. The hog had decided to content itself with its slop. Grayson looked back. Tears were running down Abbie’s face, and she dirtied her face further each time she tried to swipe them away.
Without warning, quicker than lightning
could flash, he grabbed her hand and tugged her down. She released a startled screech and slid to the ground beside him. With a wide grin, he rolled halfway over her, tucking her body beneath his, his hands curling around her arms. “Think it’s funny now?” he asked in a low voice.
He watched the joy in her eyes slowly fade into fear. No, not fear, not something that extreme. Apprehension perhaps, wariness. Her breath came in short, halting bursts. “Please, let me go.”
He felt the tremors racing through her body. “Abbie?”
She pounded her fists against his shoulders. “Get off me. Oh, God, please get off me.”
He rolled away and watched as she frantically struggled to her feet, slipping in the mud, desperate to escape the pen—to escape him.
“Ma! We got the other hogs!” Johnny cried as he and Micah guided the three remaining hogs toward the enclosure.
“Good,” she said, wrapping her hands around the gate until her knuckles turned white. “ Rhodes , you’d best get out,” she said without looking at him, her voice shaking.
The mud cloying at him, he brought himself to his feet and shuffled out of the pen. The boys guided the snorting hogs home. Abbie slammed the gate and set the latch.
“Children, you need to see to cleaning the henhouse,” Abbie threw over her shoulder as she strode toward the house.
Grayson heard the children groan before walking off, dragging their feet. He flung the mud from his hands, running the past few moments through his mind. What had happened?
Using the pump out back, Abbie began filling the bucket. She needed a bath—badly. It didn’t have to be hot, just wet. She heard the squishy sound of soaked, muddy shoes and pumped harder, faster.
“Abbie?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to take a bath. You need to go to the barn.”
“Because I touched you? I won’t leave until you tell me why you’re upset.”
He took a step toward her. Releasing the bucket, she skittered back. It banged against the pump before splashing water over the ground. Her heart was beating like a wild thing, her hands trembling as she stood covered in mud, staring at a man who was also covered in mud. Her chest felt as though someone had tied a rope taut around it. “I know what you need,” she ground out. “You’re not gonna get it from me.”
Rogues in Texas 01- A Rogue In Texas Page 8
