Texas Glory

by Lorraine Heath

  She took a deep breath before blurting, “He’s a girl.”

  “What do you mean he’s a girl?”

  She gingerly folded back the sides of the blanket. “You have a daughter.”

  He stared at the spindly legs, the tiny toes, the small chest rapidly taking in air and releasing it. Quickly he covered the child to prevent her from getting chilled. His fingers inadvertently brushed against the child’s taut fist. She unfurled her hand and tightly wrapped it around Dallas’s finger.

  She may as well have flung her arms around his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Dee said quietly.

  “Sorry?” Dallas croaked.

  “I know you wanted a son—”

  “I have a son, and now I have a daughter.” He trailed his fingers along Dee’s cheek. “We have a daughter, and she’s beautiful, just like her mother.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she laid her palm against his bristled cheek. “I love you so much.”

  Leaning over his daughter, he pressed his lips to Dee’s, kissing her deeply, bringing forth all the love he held for her.

  “Will you hit me if I thank you for giving me a daughter?” he asked quietly.

  She buried her face against his neck. “No. I was so afraid you’d be disappointed.”

  “Nothing you give me could ever disappoint me.”

  A soft rap sounded on the door before it slowly opened. Houston stuck his head into the room. “Rawley’s been worried.”

  Dee waved her hand. “Bring him in.”

  Rawley shuffled into the room, cautiously approaching until he stood beside Dallas.

  “Heard ya scream.”

  Reaching out, Dee took his hand. “Sometimes, things hurt, but we get wonderful things in return.” She turned the baby slightly. “You have a sister.”

  Rawley scrunched up his face. “A sister?”

  “What do you think of her?” Dallas asked.

  Rawley glanced up. “Think she’s butt ugly.”

  Dallas grinned. “Give her a few years, and you’ll no doubt feel differently.”

  “What are you gonna call her?”

  Dee met Dallas’s gaze. “I was thinking of Faith,” she said quietly, “to remind us that we should never lose faith in our dreams.”

  Dallas awoke to the sound of a small cry. The flame burned low in the lamp as he carefully eased away from Dee. He slipped out of bed and, in bare feet, padded to the cradle where he had laid his daughter earlier—after he had bathed her and marveled at her perfection.

  Gingerly, he lifted her into his arms. “Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered. She stared at him with deep blue eyes, and he wondered if the color would change to brown.

  He glanced toward the bed. Dee was curled on her side, her eyes closed, her breathing even.

  Quietly, he crossed the room, pulled the curtain back, unlatched the door, and stepped onto the balcony. The warm night air greeted him.

  Holding his daughter close with one arm, he pointed toward the distant horizon. “As far as you can see—it all belongs to you, Faith. Someday, I’ll take you to the top of a windmill and teach you to dream. When you reach for some of those dreams, you might fall … but your mother and I will be there to catch you because that’s what love means: always being there. I love you, little girl.” He pressed a kiss to his daughter’s cheek. “So much … it hurts. But I reckon that’s part of love, too.”

  He stood for the longest time, holding his daughter, remembering a time when he’d been a man of small dreams, a man who measured wealth in terms of gold.

  “What are you doing?” a sleepy voice asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder as Dee sidled against him. “Just showing her the stars and wishing Austin were here.”

  Dee slipped her arm around his waist and nestled her cheek within the crook of his shoulder. Carefully balancing his daughter within his embrace, he hugged his wife closer against him.

  “He should have been here,” he whispered through the knot building in his throat. He still didn’t understand all that had happened, but in his heart, he knew his brother was innocent.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. The detective he’d hired had been unable to find any evidence to prove Austin’s innocence or another’s guilt.

  Dee laid her palm against his cheek and turned his head, until their gazes locked. “He chose to hold his silence for whatever reason—”

  “It was a damn stupid thing to do, whatever the reason.”

  She smiled softly. “You’d never do something stupid to protect the woman you love?”

  He recognized from the warmth in her eyes that she knew she had cornered him. He had done something stupid: going after her alone, knowing death waited for him. And he knew beyond a doubt that he’d do it again, would risk anything for her. How could he condemn his brother for sacrificing five years of freedom when Dallas would gladly give his life to keep Dee from experiencing any sort of suffering?

  Shaking his head, he gazed at the canopy of stars. His daughter would be walking by the time Austin came home. His son would be herding cattle. His wife would be building a theater in Leighton … and anything else that struck her fancy.

  Drawing Dee more closely against him, falling into the depths of her dark gaze, he allowed himself to be lured into the glory of her love.

  1887

  Swearing viciously, Austin glared at the jagged cut on the underside of Black Thunder’s hoof. He released the horse’s foreleg, unfolded his aching body, and jerked his dusty black Stetson from his head. Exhausted, resenting the dirt working its way into every crease of his body, he stood beneath the April sun feeling as though he’d stepped into the middle of August.

  Using the sleeve of his cambric shirt, he wiped the sweat beading his brow, grimacing as pain erupted across his back—from the middle of his left shoulder to just below his ribs. He had expected the gash he’d received during the brawl with Duncan McQueen to have healed by now, but he supposed riding all day, late into the night, and sleeping on the ground hadn’t been the best treatment for the wound. When he had ridden out of Leighton several days before, he hadn’t considered that he’d have no way to clean or tend the injury. Only one thought had preyed on his mind: the city of Austin might hold the key that would lead him to Boyd’s killer, the man whose guilt would prove Austin’s innocence.

  Slipping his fingers into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out the map Dallas had given him. Wearily he studied the lines that marked the start of his journey and his final destination. He stuffed the wrinkled paper back into his pocket. He wouldn’t reach the town tonight.

  Settling his hat low over his brow, he sighed heavily. He was no in mood to walk, but the stallion’s injury left him no choice. Gazing toward the distance, he saw smoke spiraling up through the trees. He threaded the reins through his fingers and trudged into the woods. Shafts of sunlight and lengthening shadows wove through the branches, offering him some respite from the damnable heat. With a sense of loss, he remembered a time when he would have appreciated the simple beauty surrounding him. Now he just wanted to get to where he was going.

  He heard an occasional thwack as though someone were splitting wood. With the abundance of trees and bushes, he didn’t imagine anyone had to depend on cow chips for a fire.

  A wide clearing opened up before him. Lacy white curtains billowed through the open windows of a small white clapboard house. The weathered door stood ajar. Near the house a scrawny boy wearing a battered hat and worn britches struggled to chop the wood. A large dog napped beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The varying hues of his brown and white fur reminded Austin of a patchwork quilt. As Austin cautiously approached, the dog snapped open its eyes, snarled, and rose slowly to its full height. Austin had often seen Dallas bring himself to his feet in much the same manner, and he knew it didn’t bode well for the person snared within the dog’s silver gaze. The animal curled back its lips back and deepened its growl.

  Moving quickly, the
boy dipped down, swung around, and pointed a rifle at Austin. He threw his hands in the air. “Whoa! I’m not looking for trouble.”

  “What are you lookin’ for?”

  “Austin. How far is it from here?”

  “Half a day’s ride on a good horse.” The boy angled his head, the rumpled brim of his hat casting shadows over his face. “Your horse looks to be favoring his right leg.”

  The boy’s insight caught Austin off guard, although he certainly admired it. “Yep. He cut his hoof on a rock. Your folks around?”

  The boy gave a brisk nod. “And my brother. I’d feel a sight better if you’d take off the gun.”

  Austin untied the strip of leather at his thigh and slowly unbuckled the gun belt. Cautiously removing the holster, he laid the weapon on the ground, his gaze circling the area. He wondered where the rest of the family was working. He could see no fields that needed tending or cattle that needed watching. He saw the boy’s fingers tighten their hold on the rifle. He smelled the aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafting through the open door of the house. “Something sure smells good.”

  “Son-of-a-gun stew.”

  “Think you could sneak me a bowl if I finish chopping that wood for you?”

  The boy shifted his gaze to the wood scattered around an old tree stump, then looked back at Austin. “What’s your business in Austin?”

  “Looking for someone.”

  “You a lawman?”

  “Nope. My horse is hurt. I’ve been walking longer than I care to think about. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. I can chop that wood twice as fast as you can, and I’m willing to do it for one bowl of stew. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  Slowly, the boy relaxed his fingers and lowered the rifle. “Sounds like a fair trade.”

  Rolling his sleeves past his elbows, Austin strode to the tree stump. Ignoring the snarling dog that lumbered in for a closer inspection of his boots, Austin picked up the ax, hefted a log onto the stump, and slammed the ax into the dry wood. He stifled a moan as fiery pain burst across his back. When he reached his destination, his first order of business would be to find a doctor.

  “I’m gonna take your gun,” the boy said hesitantly. “And your rifle.”

  “Fine. There’s a Bowie knife in the saddlebags.” He didn’t begrudge the boy his caution, but he longed for the absolute trust he’d once taken for granted. Hearing the boy’s bare feet fall softly over the ground as he walked to the house, Austin glanced over his shoulder. The boy had grabbed his saddlebags as well!

  Austin glared at the dog. “Your master ain’t too trusting, is he?”

  The dog barked. Austin heaved the ax down into the wood, wondering if he was wasting his time traveling to the capital city. For all he knew, he could just be spitting in a high wind. If he had any sense, he’d head home and try to rebuild a life that never should have been torn down.

  But stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him the luxury of turning back. His family believed he was innocent. Becky knew he was innocent. But the doubts would forever linger in everyone else’s minds.

  When he had split and stacked enough wood to last the family a week, he ambled to the house, dropped to the porch, and leaned against the beam that supported the eave running the width of the house. The dog strolled over, stretched, yawned, and worked its way to the ground near Austin’s feet.

  “Changed your mind about me, did you?”

  Lifting its head, the dog released a small whine before settling back into place. Austin was sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep. Instead, he looked toward the horizon, where the sun was gradually sinking behind the trees. While serving his time, he’d hated to see the sun go down. He had hated the night. Loneliness had always accompanied the darkness.

  “Here’s your meal,” the boy said from behind him.

  Austin glanced over his shoulder, his outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination. The air backing up in his lungs, he slowly brought himself to his feet. The crumpled hat and shabby jacket were gone. So was the boy. The britches and bare feet were the same, but everything else had changed.

  “What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asked.

  Austin could have named a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinched the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat they glittered a tawny gold.

  He tore his hat from his head and backed up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”

  A tentative smile played across lips that reminded him of the first strawberry in spring, so sweet a man’s mouth watered before he ever had the pleasure of tasting it.

  “It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides, there’s usually no one around to notice.”

  “What about your family?”

  A wealth of sadness plunged into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.

  ” So they were “around,” as she’d told him, but not in a position to help her. She extended the bowl toward him.

  “Here. Take it.”

  He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers. They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.

  “Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth. He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron. He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt heat suffuse his face. “My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.

  She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”

  Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistook that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?

  He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.

  He saw a flash of dung-colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area.

  “I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”

  Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he could have mistaken her for a boy. Her hand held his lightly, but he still felt the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two but clean. And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.

  She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her fingers to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”

  Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”

  She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.

  He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “Murder.”

  He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have been surprised had she run into the house for her rifle. Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, studying him as though she sought some secret long buried.

  “How long were you in prison?” she finally asked. “Five years.”

  “That’s not very long for murder.” “It’s long enough.”

  She released her hold on his hand and his gaze as she
eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”

  He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed toward the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.

  She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.” The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes he looked at Austin. “Digger?” Austin asked.

  She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”

  “Austin. Austin Leigh.”

  “I thought that’s where you were headed.”

  “It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”

  “Must get confusing.”

  “Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty years.” He returned his attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling at women had brought such pleasures.

  “I’m Loree Grant.”

  “I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Grant.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl.

  “Do you want more stew?” she asked.

  “If you’ve got some to spare.”

  She rose, took his bowl, and walked into the house. A wave of dizziness assaulted Austin. He grabbed the edge of the porch and breathed deeply.

  “Are you all right?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. She stood uncertainly on the porch, the bowl of fresh stew in her hand. He bought himself to his feet, afraid what he’d already eaten wasn’t going to stay put. “Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering … with night closing in … if you’d mind if I bedded down in your barn.”

  Wariness flitted through her golden eyes, but she gave him a jerky nod.

  “ ’Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns if it’ll help you feel safer. I won’t need them tonight. In the morning before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.”

  He strode toward Black Thunder, hoping he could get the horse settled before he collapsed from exhaustion.