Rogue in Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  He strode toward the house, falling into step beside Harry. “When are you going to take a razor to your face?”

  Harry rubbed his hand back and forth across the dark bristle coating his chin. “When we’ve made our fortune.”

  “I would think a beard would be unbearably hot in this climate.”

  “It’s not that bad, and it offers some protection from the sun.” He slanted a glance toward Grayson. “Besides, the time I would spend shaving, I can spend sleeping.”

  The laughter flowed from Grayson. He and his friends had stayed up until all hours of the night and morning when they were in England. Why did they resent the early hours so much here? “Good God, but we are a lazy lot.”

  “There has to be an easier way to make a living,” Harry admitted.

  “Don’t you think these people would have taken it up if it existed?” Grayson asked.

  “No. I think they’re all masochists. I can’t understand why—once they got a notion of what they were getting themselves into—they didn’t return from whence they came.”

  “Perhaps this was better than what they had,” Grayson pointed out. “Even in England, not everyone lives the life of luxury that we took for granted.”

  “They bloody well should.”

  Grayson chuckled. He didn’t think Harry was nearly as shallow as he appeared. “Saw you and some gents resting behind the barn earlier.”

  “We weren’t resting. We were doing a bit of wagering.”

  “Oh?”

  Harry grinned. “The lovely Widow Denby shall have a new roof on her barn by Sunday.”

  “Dear God, Harry, you’d best take care that these people don’t learn that you’re a master at sleight of hand or they are likely to chop off your fingers.” It amazed him to see how many men continued to wear their weapons—guns and knives—as though they expected the enemy to jump from the bushes at any moment.

  “Don’t worry about me. I have a feeling James would like nothing more than to blind you for the way you look at his sister.”

  Grayson grabbed his friend’s arm and jerked him to a stop. “What’s wrong with the way I look at her?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. Just keep in mind that we will be leaving.” Harry resumed strolling toward the house.

  Grayson matched his stride. “This isn’t such a bad place—”

  “There’s no opportunity here, Gray.”

  “We could make the opportunity—”

  “Why go to the trouble of making it when it already exists in abundance elsewhere?”

  “It would be no trouble. All this land belongs to Abbie. If she were to marry—”

  Harry shook his head. “Watch yourself around the Widow Westland, Gray. She’s not really your type.”

  “Oh? Exactly what do you consider my type?”

  “Married.”

  Grayson stumbled to a stop while Harry continued on. With no conscious thought, he searched for Abbie among the women who had begun to serve the meal to the men. Harry was right. Grayson had always been drawn to married women—they were safer.

  Marriage for himself was something he’d never contemplated because he could not content himself with a woman who lacked rank, and he was not suitable marriage material for any woman whom he might have thought worthy of him. His father had always told him that he set his sights too high. Here he was, away from England, away from its social mores, unable to tear his gaze from a woman who could not even read.

  He had always enjoyed reading, but not nearly as much as he had the past few nights. Abbie’s rapt attention while he read gave him an incredible sense of satisfaction, a measure of joy that he’d never before experienced. He felt as though each word he spoke aloud was a gift to her. His only regret was that the words had come from Sir Walter Scott’s heart and not his own.

  He ambled to the makeshift planked table. Abbie’s gaze met his and she blushed slightly. “Sit down, Mr. Rhodes.”

  Mr. Rhodes was it? He hated it when she got formal with him—which she did whenever her neighbors were here.

  “Abbie, I can see no reason for you to wait on these men as though you are little more than a common serving girl.”

  The air suddenly filled with a hushed silence and a quivering of expectancy. Abbie’s cheeks flamed red, and he regretted any embarrassment he might be causing her, but he was damned tired of watching her work so hard. The only respite she got from labor was when he read to her in the evenings—yet even then she was darning socks or sewing clothes for the children or mending her own clothes.

  “The men work hard—”

  “And you don’t?” He grabbed the caldron of beans from her and nearly fell over with its unexpected weight. He dropped it on the table with a loud bang. He thought he might possibly have heard some wood split. “Sit down, Abbie.”

  She planted her hands on her hips, a mutinous gleam in her eye. “I don’t know how you do it in England, but here we wait on our menfolk.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the pot. Grayson laid his hand over hers. She snatched her hand back as though he’d set a burning torch against her wrist. “I don’t imagine there is a person here who gets up any earlier than you or works any harder. You’re wearing yourself down to skin and bones and I don’t like it.”

  She jerked her chin up and the violet in her eyes deepened. “I don’t care what you don’t like.”

  He quirked a brow and a corner of his mouth. “That’s too bad, because until you stop waiting on these men, I’m not reading aloud in the evenings.”

  The sadness that delved into her violet eyes almost brought him to his knees.

  “You can’t do that,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “You’re right. I can’t.” He grabbed the pot of beans. “I’ll serve the meal. You sit and rest.”

  He felt a tug on the pot and snapped his head around. Smiling, James took the pot from him. “He’s right. No reason we can’t serve ourselves.” He slapped beans on his plate and passed it to the next man.

  Abbie heaved a defeated sigh. “Reckon I’ll sit and eat.” She took a step toward the table where a few women sat with the children.

  “Not there,” Grayson said. “Here.”

  Her eyes widened. “That table is for the men.”

  “Why?”

  She looked as though he’d thrown a bucket of icy water on her. “What do you mean, why?”

  “Most of these men have not been home in years. Why would they want to sit at a table with men when they could sit with their families?”

  “I like the way you think, Rhodes,” James said as he stood. “You can have my seat, Abbie. I’m going to sit with Amy.”

  More men stood to join their wives until the only men left were those who had no wives. Women who had no husbands suddenly found themselves without a place to sit at the table that had once been for women only. Grayson watched the men at the bachelors’ table smile as women shyly sat beside them.

  “What have you done?” Abbie asked.

  Grayson smiled broadly. “Made the meal more enjoyable. Sit down.”

  For once, she did as he instructed. Careful not to touch her or give her any reason to jerk away from him, he dropped on the bench seat beside her. She sat ramrod-straight. He stood. “Scoot to the end, Abbie.”

  She did until there was nothing on one side of her but the warm Texas breeze. Awkwardly, Grayson worked his way between her and the man who had been on her other side. She relaxed only a little, but it was enough to give him hope.

  “You told James something you had no business telling him,” she whispered, her gaze riveted to the beans on her plate.

  “My apologies, but I was attempting to deflect the accusations he was throwing my way,” he said in a low voice.

  She twisted her head around, her brow furrowed, her gaze scrutinizing.

  “He thinks I mean to harm you,” Grayson explained.

  She nodded. “I told him that wasn’t the case.”

  He was comple
tely unprepared for the joy that shot through him, like a star bursting from the sky. In spite of her wariness, she trusted him—believed in him when no other woman ever had.

  He started to speak and realized something had lodged in his throat. A lump of emotion the likes of which he’d never felt before. He swallowed hard, and gave her a slow, lazy smile. “I appreciate that.”

  The pot of beans finally made its way back to Grayson. He slapped the beans on his plate. If his stomach wasn’t on the verge of growling like a maddened dog, he’d do without. He longed for something—anything—that had a thick, creamy sauce poured over it.

  “I would have been here sooner had I known the segregation of males and females had come to an end,” Kit said as he dropped down beside Harry. He smiled at Abbie’s sister as he reached for the beans. “A lady’s company always makes the meal so much more enjoyable.”

  Elizabeth snorted and rolled her eyes. “You’re wasting your flirting on me, Christian Montgomery.”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “I am deeply wounded that you would consider my sincere sentiment to be no more than flirtation.”

  She dropped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm, meeting his gaze. “Are you telling me that you weren’t flirting?”

  “Of course he was flirting,” Harry said. “That’s all he ever does.”

  “Stay out of this, Bainbridge,” Kit warned.

  “You gents got fifteen minutes before you need to get back to the fields. You’d best stop your bickering and get to eating,” Elizabeth reminded them.

  “You are a hard taskmaster, Mrs. Fairfield,” Kit said.

  She gave a brusque nod. “Don’t you forget it.”

  Grayson slanted a gaze at Abbie, who was watching her sister as though she didn’t quite know her. He wondered if she’d ever seen couples flirt, ever witnessed the easy camaraderie that could exist between a man and a woman.

  He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me about the cattle.”

  Abbie snapped her gaze to his. “What cattle?”

  “When the boys and I were on our way back from our fishing excursion, I saw some cattle. Rust-colored. Enormous horns. Why weren’t they in an enclosure, fenced in?”

  Abbie shrugged. “I don’t know much about the cattle.”

  Grayson glanced down the table. “Does anyone?”

  Andy Turner nodded. The wiry man still wore his Confederate uniform, as if he’d returned home with nothing else. Grayson didn’t think the man was any older than twenty-five.

  “What do you know?” Grayson asked.

  “Well…afore the war, a lot of ranchers were herding them cattle north, but they just set a lot of ’em free when they went off to war.”

  “So they don’t belong to anyone?” Harry asked, and Grayson could tell by the way Harry sat a little straighter that he had an interest in the conversation.

  “Depends,” Andy said.

  “On what?” Harry asked.

  “On whether or not it has a brand on it. If’n it does, it belongs to the man that owns the brand.”

  “And if it doesn’t, it’s free for the taking?”

  “Yep.”

  “So why aren’t we gathering up the cattle?” Harry asked.

  “’Cuz they’re about as valuable as Confederate money,” a man at the far end of the table said. Grayson thought the slump-shouldered man’s name was Sam.

  “Why?” Grayson asked.

  “Takes months to herd ’em to market. Ain’t worth the trouble. Cotton’s better.”

  “If there were ranchers before the war, they must have felt differently,” Kit suggested.

  Sam, Andy, and every other farmer at the table simply lifted a shoulder and returned to eating.

  Grayson, Harry, and Kit exchanged glances.

  “Might be an avenue of income worth pursuing,” Kit suggested quietly.

  “Not until the cotton is picked,” Abbie said adamantly.

  Grayson looked at her, surprised by the fierceness of her gaze.

  “Not until the cotton is picked,” he assured her.

  Grayson stood, his arm raised, hand braced against the inside wall of the barn, his gaze focused on the pale halo of light spilling into the night from the back of the house. For over two weeks, he’d kept vigil here, wondering if Abbie were bathing in the moonlight, thinking of the warm water caressing her flesh.

  The woman was driving him to distraction. He wanted to see laughter reflected in her eyes instead of weariness. He wanted to purchase her the finest gowns, made with the softest material.

  He’d never known anyone like her, never known someone who thought of her own needs last—if she thought of them at all.

  Grayson enjoyed reading to the family in the evenings, watching the way Abbie’s gaze would drift over her children. In the beginning, he’d wanted her attention to remain on him but as the evenings came one after another, he began to realize that when her attention wandered away from him, he lost nothing for he still had her presence.

  Dear God, but he had emerged from selfish surroundings. He had come here wondering how he might best benefit. In less than a fortnight, he had seen what hard labor truly was. He wanted to ease the burden Abbie carried, not only the burden of caring for a family and maintaining a farm but he also wanted to ease the burden of her heart.

  He had only once heard her laughter; he seldom saw her smile. She hadn’t any idea how to enjoy life.

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. Well, perhaps she had a small inkling of an idea—after all, she took her baths surrounded by moonlight.

  Except for tonight. The faint glow coming from behind the house puzzled him. He was certain she’d taken baths other nights because she smelled like a freshly plucked rose each morning. He was fairly certain she took her baths outside. At least his imagination had her taking baths outside.

  But never before had there been a light—not even the first night when he’d unwittingly discovered her indulgence.

  Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, he turned and walked toward the ladder that led to the loft, to his humble abode.

  Bloody hell. He spun around and stalked from the barn. He’d honored his word for two damnable weeks which was longer than any respectable rogue should honor anything. As he neared the house, he lightened his step. The last thing he wanted to do was alarm her. He just wanted to ensure that all was well.

  And if he happened to catch a glimpse of her in the lamplight…so be it.

  Holding his breath, he peered around the corner. Abbie’s back was to him. She was nestled deep within the tub, her head back against its edge. A lantern on a crate near the tub illuminated the book she held within her hands, high above the water.

  His book!

  He rounded the corner and snatched the book from her grasp. She released a tiny screech and the water splashed over the sides as she sank further within its depths.

  “You’re going to get the book wet and ruin it,” he scolded as he scrutinized it, grateful to see no water stains.

  “I was careful,” she said, her voice breathless.

  He shifted his gaze from the book to her—and wished to God that he hadn’t. She had piled her hair on top of her head. Flaxen strands framed her face and trailed along the slender length of her neck. The light from the lantern shimmered over the dewy drops of water that covered her face, her throat, her bare shoulders…the swells of her breasts that only became visible when the water ebbed and flowed. She was an illiterate farm girl and he’d never wanted anyone more. His fingers tightened on the book. Not illiterate.

  “I thought you couldn’t read.”

  Her brows came together into a deep furrow. “Why would you think that?”

  “When I found you with the book, you were simply holding it.”

  “It wasn’t mine. I didn’t know if you’d want me to read it.”

  “If you can read, then why did you look devastated when I threatened to stop reading to you?”

  “I love
your voice,” she confessed softly, and he would have sworn that even within the shadows, he saw her blush. Then her words hit him with the impact of a sledgehammer. She loved his voice. Never, in his whole life, had he had the word love directed toward any aspect of his person.

  “Is it…” He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal when he had a lump the size of an apple lodged in his throat. “Is it the timbre of my voice that appeals to you or the way I pronounce the words?”

  “Both. You sound so…so—”

  “English?”

  He saw the barest of smiles touch her lips. “Yes.”

  “Then my voice will be at your disposal whenever you wish it.”

  Her smile grew slightly. “There you go, making me feel like buttermilk again.”

  Against his better judgment, he smiled mischievously and leaned toward her. “Have I ever mentioned that I simply adore the taste of buttermilk? I have been known to lick the glass clean.”

  Her eyes widened and before she could react further, he asked, “Have you been reading the book every night?”

  “Only the passages you already read to us. I like looking at the words, reading them. But tonight I…” She lowered her gaze.

  “You what?”

  She lifted her gaze, guilt readily apparent. “I read past where you read. I wanted to know if Ivanhoe was going to save Rebecca.”

  He smiled slightly. “Did he?”

  “I don’t know. You took the book away!”

  Taking a step forward, he grabbed the lantern and walked to the porch.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m going to read to you.”

  “I’m bathing.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You said you’d leave me in peace when I bathed.”

  “What could be more peaceful than sinking back in the tub and listening to me read? After all, I know you love the sound of my voice.”

  “Not when I’m bathing.”

  “Then don’t bathe. Simply listen.”

  Abbie glared at the man for all of a single heartbeat before allowing herself to relax within the steaming water. She did so love his voice, the gentle lilt that made the words sound poetic, much softer than her own voice did.