Rogue in Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  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. “Mr. 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.”

  He should have looked ridiculous with the mud streaking his face. Instead he looked incredibly foreboding as he narrowed his eyes. “What do I need?”

  Her gaze darted to his trousers and back to his eyes. How innocent they both looked, but she knew differently. “I know what I felt when you were on top of me. I know what you want.”

  Bending, he picked up the bucket and began to work the pump. “You think I want to ravish you?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded jerkily.

  He stilled. “You’re right. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than lay you down on the cool clover, remove your clothes, and make passionate love to you. It’s what I want, Abbie. It’s not what I need.”

  “I’m a widow. I know for a man there’s no difference between wants and needs. I’m never getting married again. I’m never going to have a man in my house, in my bed—”

  “Did your husband rape you?”

  Abbie staggered back. What in God’s name was she doing discussing this subject with this man? How could she explain the dread of hearing the bed creak beneath his weight as he rolled toward her…the humiliation of having her gown lifted, the initial pain. “No, he never forced me, but—”

  “But perhaps he led you to believe you had no choice when it came to his needs. With me, you will always have a choice. Even if I am unable to control my body’s reaction to your nearness, I can control my actions.” He dumped the water over his head, washing away some of the mud. Then he gave her a look that she thought might have scalded her had she been standing any closer to him. “Remember that, Abbie. Should anything ever happen between us, it will be because it is what you want.”

  She watched him walk away, the mud that still clung to his clothes making his movements stiff. She thought about yelling after him that women didn’t have wants and needs with respect to that, but if that were the case, why did she suddenly find herself wondering exactly what it would feel like to lay naked upon clover?

  It felt damn good to be clean.

  Grayson walked from the back of the house where he’d indulged in a hot bath after helping the children clean the henhouse and the stalls in the barn.

  He knew Abbie would call them into the house for dinner soon. The sun was easing over the horizon, but he was too weary to appreciate its beauty, too grateful to know the day of rest would soon be over. He did not consider the English to be a lazy lot, but by God, they did know how to appreciate a day of rest. How in God’s name did these Texans continue day after day when nothing awaited them but toil and hard work? Why should a man work his fingers to the bone if he never had a moment to appreciate what he had attained?

  Grayson strolled into the barn and watched the dust motes waltz lazily around him. His body craved a few moments of hiding away and doing absolutely nothing. He climbed the ladder toward the loft. Just a few moments of solitude when his hands weren’t in constant movement, his mind reeling with possibilities. The top of the loft came into view and he stilled.

  Abbie sat in the loft, framed by the opening, looking for all the world like an ethereal painting. Her feet were tucked beneath her, her hands caressing his book as though it were a lover. His stomach tightened as he was suddenly hit with the ridiculous notion that he wished he were a book. Although he could only see her profile, awe was clearly written within every line and curve of her face.

  The ladder creaked as he hoisted himself into the loft. She jerked her head around. The wonder in her eyes very nearly stole every bit of breath from his body. She held her find toward him. “It’s a book,” she whispered reverently.

  “Ivanhoe,” Grayson said quietly, not wishing to shatter the fragile moment. “It’s my favorite.”

  She trailed her fingers over the leather cover. “I’ve never seen an honest-to-gosh real book before. Except for the Bible…and John’s almanac.”

  Her statement held no great surprise. So many of the things he’d taken for granted in England were sought-after luxuries here. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  He saw desire and doubt swirl within her eyes, and at that moment, he would have given his soul to have the desire directed toward him. “I could read it to you and the children after the evening meal.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Oh, they’d like that.”

  It surprised him to discover that he would as well. He’d once spent the evenings drinking, gaming, womanizing, and he could suddenly think of nothing more alluring than sitting before a fire in the evening and reading to Abbie and her children. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  With great care, she set the book into the exact spot where he’d left it the night before. Then, reaching out, she touched the newest addition to his home. “I made you the pallet I promised. Stuffed it with goose feathers. Thought it would be more comfortable than just lying on quilts on the straw.”

  “I can’t recall ever receiving so fine a gift.”

  “It’s not a fine gift, but it’s practical.”

  “I was referring to your smile as you held the book. You don’t smile enough, Abbie.”

  Her cheeks flamed red. “I need to get supper going.”

  Although he preferred to stay where he was, out of respect for her apprehensions he moved aside so she could scramble past him. She was well out of sight before her head suddenly popped up, her brow furrowed. “You won’t forget to bring the book, will you?”

  He smiled warmly. “I won’t forget.”

  She disappeared over the edge. He crawled across the loft and glanced out the opening. He couldn’t give a name to the stirring in his chest that grew as he watched Abigail Westland—widow, cotton farmer, mother of three—skip to the house with joyful abandon.

  He only knew that even in hell, a man could find snatches of heaven.

  Grayson had spent his life longing for attention, adoration, the warmth of family. As he sat in a chair before the hearth with an enraptured audience before him, he had never felt more content. The children were stretched out on the floor on their stomachs, their eyes wide, their attention riveted on him.

  Abbie had begun the evening sitting in a chair across from him, sewing in hand. It had pleased him greatly when her hands finally stilled as she became absorbed in the story. He wished he’d brought a hundred books.

  And he wished he coul
d read through the night, but the day had taken a toll on him and he knew tomorrow would be no easier. He read the final words of the chapter and closed the book.

  Johnny scrambled up, his brow deeply furrowed. “You’re done?”

  “For this evening. It’s quite late.”

  Abbie looked toward the clock on the mantel and her eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness. It’s almost ten. I can’t believe it.” She stood. “Children, say good night to Mr. Rhodes. It’s long past time for bed.”

  The children grumbled, but they dutifully thanked him before shuffling across the room. Lydia went through one door, the boys through another. One door remained closed, and Grayson knew it would be the door into Abbie’s bedroom. He had never given much thought to where she slept, but suddenly he had a strong desire to extend this feeling of family…to follow her to her room and take her into his arms—

  An action to which he knew she would strenuously object.

  “Thank you for reading to the children,” Abbie said, wringing her hands as though she’d realized the direction his thoughts had traveled.

  He stood and set the book on the table. “It was my pleasure. I’ll leave the book here.”

  He wanted to prolong the moment, but knew no good would come of it. He crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped into the night. He heard her quiet footsteps and turned to see her standing within a shaft of pale lamplight, one hand gripping the edge of the door.

  “The children will probably dream of merry England tonight,” she said hesitantly.

  He took a step toward her. “What will you dream of, Abbie?”

  “I don’t dream. Do you dream of England?” she asked hastily.

  “No.”

  “You don’t dream either?” she asked.

  “I dream, but the truth of them would probably frighten you.”

  “You have nightmares? Are they from your childhood?”

  “They aren’t nightmares, and they are most certainly not the dreams of a child. I rather enjoy them actually.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I dream of you,” he said quietly. He saw the shock ripple through her eyes and knew he was right to think the admission would unsettle her.

  “You shouldn’t say that,” she scolded.

  “But you asked,” he pointed out, wishing he had indeed kept his mouth shut. Conversations held with her were as fragile as hand-blown glass, and it took very little to shatter her trust.

  She pulled back into the house slightly and the door closed a little. “You can’t help it, can you?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t help being a rogue.”

  “Afraid not. I fight it where you’re concerned, but I’m a weak man.”

  “Not so weak, I think,” she said quietly. “And you’re kind.”

  “Dear God, don’t tell anyone that. It’ll send my reputation to hell.”

  She bowed her head. “I’m sorry about this afternoon. I think…you were only trying to tease me when you pulled me into the mud. I…I’m no good at flirting or teasing—”

  “For which I’m incredibly grateful one moment and deeply frustrated the next.”

  She snapped her gaze up to his.

  “You’re honest and so open,” he explained. “I’ve never known anyone like you. You always have the slightest look of bafflement on your face when I tease you, as though you aren’t quite sure how to react. Rest assured that I am harmless…until you give me permission to be otherwise.”

  Before she could protest, he leapt off the porch and threw over his shoulder, “Good night, Abbie. Have pleasant dreams.”

  7

  “You want to make sure you cover the roots,” a deep voice rumbled over Grayson’s shoulder.

  Grayson nodded at Abbie’s brother. “I appreciate the advice.”

  He returned to chopping the weeds away from the cotton stalks, but he felt James watching him as though he were an irritating gnat that needed to be squashed. “Am I doing something else wrong?”

  “Amy and I…”

  Grayson straightened, bending backward to work the painful knots out of his lower back. “You and Amy?”

  “We’ve got an extra room at our house. We plan to use it for the baby when we have one, but right now it’s empty. Thought you might want to come live with us.”

  Grayson smiled slightly. “I’m quite content in Abbie’s barn. Thank you.”

  All attempts at good humor fled the man’s face. “I don’t want to see Abbie hurt.”

  “I have no intention of hurting her.”

  James took a step closer, and Grayson had little doubt that before the war had battled the man down to skin and bones he was a formidable size. “I don’t know how things are done in England, but we live by different rules here. If you hurt Abbie, I’ll kill you.”

  Grayson arched a brow. “So you’re the one who killed her husband?”

  Horror sweeping over his face, James jerked his head back as though Grayson had punched him. “No! Yankees killed him.”

  “Yet you had no objections to her husband hurting her. You just don’t want an Englishman to hurt her.”

  “John never hurt Abbie—”

  “Then why is she fearful of a man’s touch?”

  “She’s not—”

  “She is,” Grayson insisted. “When I did nothing more than offer her my assistance Sunday, she acted as though my hand were a snake.” What had transpired at the hog pen was a matter he saw no need to divulge.

  He could see James contemplating his answer as he looked toward the house where Abbie and several women were preparing the noon meal. “I don’t think John…She would have told me…John wasn’t…”

  He turned his attention back to Grayson. The concern reflected in his eyes came as a surprise. “You think he hurt her?”

  “How could he not? Dear God, man, she was only sixteen when she married him.”

  “That’s not unusual. A lot of women get married young—”

  “She wasn’t a woman. She was a child.”

  James dropped his gaze to the ground and mumbled, “Too many mouths to feed.”

  Grayson leaned forward slightly. “What has that to do with anything?”

  With guilt reflected in his eyes, James met Grayson’s gaze. “My parents had eleven children. Crops weren’t doing well. Pa thought it would be better on the older girls if they took a husband, had someone else to feed and clothe them. Daniel had been courting Elizabeth so that was no problem, but Abbie…well, she hadn’t caught anyone’s eye.”

  Grayson assumed the community had consisted of fools who wore blinders instead of hats.

  James shrugged. “John was a bit of a loner but he was the most prosperous farmer around.”

  Grayson allowed his gaze to roam to the small clapboard house and back to the fields. This was prosperity? Dear God, and his father had expected him to become a man of means here? “So your father sold her?”

  “No. He just gave John permission to ask for Abbie’s hand. She was excited about being his wife.”

  I didn’t know everything a wife does for her husband.

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid that excitement might have died on her wedding night—along with her innocence.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Perhaps I am. Perhaps her husband didn’t hurt her, but someone did. Of that, I’m sure.”

  James clenched his jaw and gave a long slow nod. “If you’re right, I’ll find out who it was and if he’s still alive, I’ll kill him.” He turned, started to walk away, stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. “And if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

  Grayson watched him make his way to the end of the furrow. Texas seemed to lack not only civilization but civilized people.

  Abbie felt the hand clamp onto her shoulder. With a tiny shriek, she spun around. She pressed her hand above her pounding heart. “Dear Lord, James, you scared me to death.”

  Her brother narrowed his
eyes. “Who did you think I was?”

  “I had no idea who you were, but I’m not used to being grabbed.” She turned back to the heavy cast-iron caldron and stirred the simmering beans.

  “Is the Englishman bothering you?”

  She snapped her head around. “Where in the world did that question come from?”

  Her brother’s gaunt cheeks flamed red. She wondered if John had grown as thin before he was killed.

  James ducked his head slightly. “I’ve seen the way the Englishman watches you.”

  Abbie’s heart fluttered like the wings of a butterfly being spread for the first time. “Exactly how is he looking at me?”

  James’ face became even redder. “You know, Abbie.”

  She planted a hand on a hip. “No, James, I don’t.”

  “He looks at you the way a man does when he’s…thinkin’ things he shouldn’t.”

  Abbie shifted her gaze to the fields. She could see little more than the hat that she knew Grayson was wearing. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I have no interest in him, and he knows it. So he can look all he wants. Nothing will come of it.”

  “He says John hurt you.”

  She snapped her gaze back to her brother. “What?”

  “He thinks…Why did you jump when I touched you?”

  “I told you. You startled me.”

  He lifted his hand, and she jerked back slightly. A sadness touched his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were unhappy with John?”

  “I wasn’t unhappy. He was a good man.”

  “But was he a good husband?”

  “Let the dead rest in peace, James. I have three children that I love.” And memories that did no more than haunt her.

  Grayson heard the clanging iron that meant Abbie had finished preparing the noon meal. He thought briefly of the tiny brass bell the duke’s wife chimed whenever she was ready for a servant to serve another portion of the meal. Here someone only clanged the iron once because more often than not only one dish was served.

  Each day, more men worked the fields, the vanquished returning home with little or no fanfare. Some men introduced themselves; others simply took up a hoe and chopped at the ground as though they’d never left. No one spoke of the war that had taken him from family and home.