Summer Moon

by Jill Marie Landis

  Even now, his heart tightened as he sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his shoulder, staring at his bare knees and long bare feet. He hurt deep inside again, the way he had when Jonah stood there looking down at him with undisguised pity.

  Memory of everything that happened after that morning was a blur. The trip back had been a long, arduous ride while he tried to keep the squirming, kicking child on the horse. With every mile, fever took a stronger hold on him. The last thing he half recalled was tying the boy to the hitching post in front of the house.

  Had that been part of his feverish nightmare, too? Where was the boy now?

  Reed rubbed his temple. His forehead was warm, and his shoulder beneath the bandage ached. He was thirsty and hungry as a bear after hibernation. He figured he was going to live when the scent of bacon hit him and his stomach growled.

  Hoping to spot his pants and shirt, he looked around the room. Sofia’s touches were everywhere. Starched lace curtains hung at all the windows. The floors were polished to such a high gleaming shine that they appeared slick. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the bedside table or the tall chest of drawers. His clothes were nowhere in sight, but his holster and guns were hanging on the back of a side chair by a window across the room.

  He stood up, fighting dizziness as he wound the bedsheet around his hips. He turned and tugged it free of the mattress. His gaze was immediately drawn to a smeared, coin-size bloodstain in the middle of the bed. He frowned and looked down at his bandaged shoulder, but the cloth was clean. There didn’t appear to be any bleeding. He had not reopened his wound.

  Then one of the floorboards creaked and was followed by the sound of a woman’s voice. “You’re awake,” she said.

  He turned in time to watch her gaze drop to the sheet he had wound around his hips, then shoot back up to his face.

  At first glance, he was so shocked by her resemblance to Becky that all he could do was stare. She appeared just as stunned as he, but then she smiled, and the expression on her face scared the hell out of him. There was something in her eyes that he didn’t want to name, something that held such shining promise, such admiration, almost as if he had hung the moon. Something he barely recognized anymore.

  Something akin to love.

  As she stood there apparently not knowing where to look, he noticed that his first impression had been wrong. In reality, she didn’t look so much like his late wife. This woman was taller, long of limb. Her lips were fuller than Becky’s. Her brown eyes were huge. Her hair, a deep, rich color, was vibrant with auburn highlights.

  She was fresh-faced and glowing, the high color across her cheeks giving away her embarrassment. Was that because she knew he was naked beneath the sheet or because of his intent stare?

  Before he could get a word out, she took a deep breath and focused on the tray as she bustled into the room.

  In a prim, businesslike manner, one not in the least cold or unattractive, she set the tray down and began to fuss with a flowery little china pot, the silver cutlery, a covered dish—all the time glancing over at him from beneath lowered lashes.

  Reed kept a tight hold on the sheet. The smell of fresh bacon and eggs and hot coffee made his legs weak and his mouth water. He slowly lowered himself to the edge of the bed.

  “Sofia thought you might be awake and hungry,” she said. Her voice was low, smoky, arousing.

  Sofia must have hired kitchen help. The woman certainly wasn’t dressed any better than a maid. Her faded gown had seen better days. Even he, no expert on women’s fashions, could see that.

  She was definitely a handsome woman, and he was a man who had been without for a long, long while. Still, there was something about the way she moved, something in the sound of her voice, too, that left him feeling oddly satisfied.

  As he watched her lean over and ready his meal, a feeling he couldn’t dismiss continued to nag him. Something was missing here. She kept flashing him embarrassed, familiar glances, as if waiting for him to say something, and yet he had no recollection of her at all.

  When he caught the scent of roses, something haunting and undeniable about her teased the edges of his consciousness. It teased him elsewhere, too. He glanced down to make certain the sheet was tightly wrapped.

  “I don’t know how you take your coffee.” She sounded shy and preoccupied, almost as if thinking out loud rather than speaking to him directly. She had yet to actually meet his eyes again, though she hovered over the tray less than a foot away.

  He could listen to her warm voice all day, for it was as potent as a caress. He watched her pick up the empty coffee cup, put it down, pick it up again. He studied her well shaped, pale fingers as they nervously moved over the flowered china.

  He tried smiling. It had been a long time since he had been even halfway interested in a woman. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

  She fumbled and dropped the cup. He made an instinctive lunge for it and was forced to grab for his sheet instead. He watched the cup slowly fall to the floor and shatter.

  “Pardon me, but what did you say?” She stood there amid the broken china, ignoring it completely. Her eyes had gone huge and liquid and frightened. He wondered why.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  She blanched. “Why, I’m . . . I’m Kate, Reed. Katherine Whittington.” She pressed her palm hard against her midriff as if he’d punched her. “I . . . we’re . . .”

  “We’re what?” He didn’t like the break in her voice or the stunned look of utter betrayal in her eyes. He would have recognized the look anywhere—because he saw it deep in his own eyes every time he looked in the mirror.

  He watched as she drew a calming breath, this Kate, this woman whom he had somehow wounded without intent, saw her square her shoulders and steady herself.

  “We’re married.” Her lower lip trembled.

  She had to be insane. Maybe Sofia had taken pity on a crazy woman and hired her. He didn’t like the nagging suspicion that he did know her from someplace, the feeling that somehow, she did belong here. He reached up, touched his temple. The scabbed-over wound was tender. Maybe something had happened to his mind.

  “Where did you come from? How did you get in here?” He glanced toward the door, then back.

  “Surely, you remember. We . . . we corresponded for months. We were married by proxy three weeks ago.”

  As if a damn good explanation would make it all true, or else to trap him in her lunacy, she kept talking. “You sent me money to make the trip out here.” Her sultry voice had risen half an octave by the end of the sentence.

  He shook his head, saw her eyes go wider. It was obvious his denial hurt her. “I don’t know about any correspondence. I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

  “I can prove it. I have all of your letters.”

  “I never wrote you any damn letters.”

  She spun away. The toe of her shoe connected with a piece of china. It skittered across the floor and smacked against the oak baseboard. Quickly kneeling, she began to gather up the shattered bits and cup them in her palm. Her hand shook as she set the shards on the tray.

  She cleared her throat, her eyes suspiciously bright, but she spoke with more determination.

  “I’ve kept all your letters. Every last one of them.”

  She was beginning to frighten him. Not her exactly, for even in his weakened condition she was no match for him, but he was completely unaware of what might have gone on here while he was unconscious.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to. What day is it? What year?”

  “May fifteenth, eighteen seventy. We were married by proxy.”

  She spoke slowly, carefully pronouncing each word as if he were the lunatic. The day and the date fit. He left the Rangers on the eleventh. It had probably taken him at least two days, if not more, to get here.

  Married by proxy.

  Suddenly he realized that this whole charade had the ring of one of his father’s schemes. His last five years away had give
n the old man plenty of time to concoct something like this, time to dredge up a plan to keep him here.

  The woman looked so stricken that Reed feared she was about to faint. He had an oddly compelling urge to comfort her, to reach out and take her hand. She was either a pawn of his father’s or she was a very good actress.

  “Look, ma’am—”

  “Kate. It’s . . . Kate.”

  “Look, Kate. I’m sorry, but whatever it is you think I agreed to, whatever you were led to believe, well, it’s all been a lie. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “But . . . it can’t be a lie.” When a solitary tear slipped and fell over the edge of her lower lashes to trickle down her cheek, she dashed it away with the back of her hand.

  Something danced on the edges of his mind. The scent of roses, a vision of her long, dark hair, not in the pert little bun perched like a sparrow on her head right now, but rich skeins woven into a thick braid. He envisioned it loose, rippling to her hips. Reed shook his head.

  “My father is behind this somehow. Just ask him,” he said.

  She blinked, and another tear fell. Something about her tensed, and she batted the tear away. Then she looked him square in the eye and said, “Your father is dead.”

  11

  Her heart raw and bleeding, Kate had desperately wanted to inflict pain when she bluntly announced to Reed that his father was dead, but his expression never changed. Reed’s eyes registered nothing—not shock, certainly not sorrow.

  “He was buried yesterday afternoon,” she added, “not long after you collapsed with fever.”

  Disconnected, she was utterly unable to believe that this was the same man who had held her so lovingly, had treated her with the utmost tenderness. The man who had told her that he loved her last night was now insisting that he had no idea who she was. She watched him tiredly rub his eyes as if to clear away the very sight of her.

  If what he claimed was true, if he was ignorant of all the letters and the proxy marriage, if the entire long-distance courtship had been his father’s doing, then all the questions that had plagued her could finally be explained.

  He had not told her that he was a Texas Ranger, or about Daniel, or his father, or the fact that he did not even live at Benton House anymore because he had not written the letters.

  But if she believed him, if she believed this was all part of a hoax concocted by Reed Senior, then last night she had consummated a union unsanctioned by law. She was not his wife.

  Nor was she a virgin any longer.

  Kate wanted to find a dark corner to crawl into, to curl up and hide just as she had done when her mother abandoned her.

  She had expected too much. She had reached too high and now, even the dream had vanished. She had been reduced to something little better than her mother.

  A few moments ago she had walked through the door to this room hoping to hear him say I love you again. She had been wondering how soon they would make love. Instead, he denied knowing her, denied their marriage. She had no reason to disbelieve his protest until suddenly, a faint glimmer of hope began to shine.

  Perhaps the fever had somehow destroyed parts of his memory.

  Yes, surely that was it. He was still suffering from the shock of his wounds and the power of the fever. Like the dark bruises beneath his eyes, the remnants of fever still clouded his mind. Certainly, the laudanum fogged his thoughts, too. After a good meal and some sound sleep, he would remember her and all his promises. He would remember.

  Adrift, still frightened to her very soul, she did the only thing she could do. She forced a smile and uncovered the plate of bacon, eggs, fresh biscuits, and gravy that Sofia had prepared.

  “Perhaps,” she continued to speak softly, purposely keeping her voice smooth and even, “perhaps after you eat something and get some rest, you’ll remember. After all, you’ve been very, very ill.” She spoke slowly and clearly, as if he were one of her students, hoping to calm herself as well.

  She glanced at the slivers of broken china remaining on the floor. “I really need to get a broom.”

  “I really need my clothes. And I need to get to the bottom of this. Where in the hell is Sofia?”

  Kate snapped erect. “There is no need to shout.” What if he became uncontrollable?

  Thankfully, at that very moment, the door swung open and Sofia stepped into the room, cool and composed, her jet hair pulled back severely and fashioned in an intricate twist. Her expensive black gown was crisp, freshly pressed; a cameo brooch hugged her collar at her throat. But her composure was marred by her reddened eyes.

  “Can you tell me what in the hell is going on here?” Reed turned on the housekeeper without so much as a hello.

  Although Kate was unused to such explosive displays of temper, Sofia calmly folded her hands at her waist, seemingly unruffled by his outburst.

  “If you will get back in bed and cover yourself properly, I will try to explain.” She looked at Kate and added, “To both of you.”

  When Reed balked, the woman calmly insisted again that he get back into bed and cover himself.

  Amazed when he actually did as the housekeeper asked, Kate turned her back when he began to unwind the sheet. As soon as he was comfortably seated in bed, Sofia crossed the room and helped him smooth out the bedclothes and then pulled the light woven coverlet to his waist.

  Kate covered the plate of food. She wasn’t quite sure how she managed it with her hands shaking so hard, but she even refilled his water glass for want of something to do.

  Sofia offered her a seat in the rocking chair. When Kate declined, preferring to stand, Sofia sat down heavily, as if burdened by what she had to say.

  Reed crossed his arms over his bare chest and pinned the housekeeper with an icy stare. “This woman claims we’re married. And that the old man’s dead.”

  “He is.” Sofia nodded. Her eyes, unable to hold her sorrow, shimmered with unshed tears. “Your father was quite ill for the past two years. His heart was failing. He was desperate to have you come home and run Lone Star. Surely you knew that if you received his letters.”

  “I threw them out unopened.”

  “He came up with a plan to find you a woman, someone who would be a fitting wife. He hoped to use her . . . to entice you back.” Her voice stumbled on the words, but she went on.

  “With the help of his lawyer, he placed an advertisement in a few small-town newspapers in the Northeast, the area where his maternal grandmother was born. He received many, many letters in response.”

  Kate gasped. Sofia was discussing her as if she were not even there. Reed turned to stare, looked her up and down as if he was buying stock. It had been a deception, all of it. She had been part of a grand, horrific scheme, and worse yet, naive enough to believe she was the only woman to have answered the advertisement.

  Sofia continued. “He was so excited. He began to look forward to getting up in the morning again. He could not wait for the mail to be brought in. Your father had not been so excited about life for a long, long time.”

  As if exhausted, she rested her head against the back of the rocker. “He asked me to help compose the letters because I would know better than he what was in a woman’s heart, because I could say all the things a woman wants to hear. We worked on them together. I told him what to write.”

  All those letters Kate had waited for, the beautiful words and phrases she had memorized. All the hours of planning and dreaming, all the time and effort she took to compose her own letters to him, choosing each and every word as carefully as a mother chooses a child’s name.

  This Reed Benton, the man she thought she married, had never even read them. All of it had been a terrible lie. And she had been a desperate fool.

  Sofia stared down at her clenched hands and then finally faced Reed. “I should not have done it. I knew it then, just as I do now, but I could not resist. Finding you a wife gave the señor a reason for living. He was so sad, ever since Daniel was taken and you refus
ed to come home and run the ranch as you should have—”

  “Don’t try to put this on me, Sofia. You don’t know the half of it. Do you really think he was about to step aside and turn this place over to me as long as there was a breath in his body?” Reed’s eyes narrowed. “How did the old man think he was going to get me to go along with a marriage I knew nothing about?”

  A knife might just as well have pierced Kate’s heart at his words. What little was left of her pitiful hopes and tattered dreams crumbled like dried rose petals. She had reached too high and now the fall was going to break her.

  “He asked them all to send pictures.” Sofia began to slowly rock back and forth. “He spent hours going through them, laying them out on the desk like playing cards, studying each and every one carefully. When Katherine’s photograph arrived, he knew that she was the right one the moment he saw her. She reminded him of . . . of your first wife.”

  Reed’s expression darkened at the mention of his wife. His brow tightened; his mouth firmed. “Go on.” He demanded that Sofia continue.

  Kate had heard enough. She wished it were over.

  “He chose Katherine Whittington not only for her looks, but because she was the most intelligent. She was a teacher. And she had no family ties.”

  When Sofia’s image suddenly blurred and wavered, Kate turned her back and stared out the open window, seeing nothing. Humiliated, she listened to the sound of her own heartbeat.

  No family ties. No one to protest should Reed Senior’s little plan fall apart.

  All those beautiful letters filled with lovely words of promise and hope, the letters that she had built her dream upon had not been a foundation for the future, as she thought, but a well-designed trap. They were not even the words of a man. They had been written by a woman, solely to appeal to another woman’s heart.

  She had lived locked away, safe and secure at the orphanage for far too long. She had become too trusting, too naive. Over the years she had wanted something so much that she had cast common sense aside and let herself be caught in the snare of a sick old man bent upon controlling his son’s life.