Sunrise Over Texas

by MJ Fredrick

  She hoped the woman didn’t remember how to reload.

  The horse had trotted away at the sound, but it returned now. With every ounce of strength, she shoved until the man swayed on his knees, then she clicked her tongue at the horse, who approached with head lowered.

  This time the man managed to keep his grip on the stirrup and, with the help of Kit and the horse, climbed to his feet. He leaned against the horse, struggling for breath as he clutched his saddle. She pressed against his back, holding him up as she shoved his foot into the stirrup. Pushing and lifting with very little help from him, she draped him over the horse’s back, face down. He sighed but didn’t attempt to sit up.

  “Will your horse let me lead him?”

  His only response was a grunt. She didn’t try to decipher the meaning, only took the bridle and led the animal toward the fort. The horse’s hooves masked any other sound, and she had to be more vigilant. Her heart raced with each step, especially since Agnes had already fired the rifle and might not be able to shoot again to protect Kit. The horse sensed her anxiety and tossed its head, but she held tight, guiding him forward.

  When she reached the heavy wooden doors of the fort, Mary pushed one door open. Twin reactions of relief and dismay washed through Kit. She opened the door wider for the horse, but shooed her sister-in-law to the side. She didn’t want this stranger knowing about the girl, so she waved Mary off, gesturing toward their quarters. Mary’s eyes filled with tears as Kit jerked her head toward the rooms, widening her own eyes for emphasis, and mouthed, “Now!”

  Hurt flashed across the young woman’s face but she turned and did as Kit ordered.

  Kit walked the horse across the yard to the western wall of the fort, where the second lieutenant’s bachelor quarters were situated. She stilled the horse with a hand to his muzzle, and opened the door.

  The room was chillier than she expected. The oiled parchment over one window had torn and now flapped, the sound too loud in the narrow, cold confines. Despite the blast of fresh air, the room smelled moldy.

  That didn’t matter. She needed to get him in here, get a fire going, and then she’d figure out what to do next.

  She approached the horse’s side, gripped the back of the man’s shirt and heaved. Gravity helped her and he slid down to the ground, bumping into her, sending her staggering against the wall. She curled her arms under his, holding him close, letting his feet drag along the ground as she hauled him to the bed. She managed to heft him onto it, face down, and a musty cloud rose around him with the force of the drop. Holding her breath, she lifted his legs onto the narrow bunk. He was so tall his feet hung off the end. Well, this was the best she could do.

  She rolled her aching shoulders as she reasoned out what needed to be done. Water first, for him to drink, which meant she had to get him on his back. Start a fire. Fix the window. Stable and feed his horse—at least the soldiers had left her hay.

  Get the stranger healthy and on his way.

  He was strong, though, well-muscled. Perhaps he could help them leave here. Almost immediately she pushed the thought away. She knew nothing about his temperament. No, sending him on his way would be the best choice. The safest.

  She tightened her wrap around her, though she was warm and damp from her exertions, and headed to the well.

  He’d managed to get himself onto his back when she returned. One arm crooked over his face.

  “I have water,” she murmured, cradling the ceramic ladle in her hand. “Can you sit up?”

  He didn’t respond. She stepped farther into the room and shook his shoulder. He groaned in response. She dragged her finger along the wet rim of the ladle and rubbed it over his cracked and heated lips. Her finger tingled and she resisted the urge to snatch her hand back from the too-intimate act. But he needed her help, and she couldn’t turn away from that. His breath came out on a sigh and he licked the water from his lips.

  “More?” she asked.

  His nod was almost imperceptible. Clearly he didn’t have the strength to sit up on his own. She edged closer to the bed, bending over him. His eyelids fluttered open and he looked up, brown eyes pained, as she curved her hand around the back of his head to lift it. His thick collar-length hair curled around her fingers, the heat of his skin warming her palm. She felt the pull of his muscles as he tried to help her. She brought the ladle to his lips, and in his eagerness to drink, he spilled half of it down his cheeks. She steadied him as he drank the rest.

  He dropped his head back to the mattress and his eyes closed again. “More,” he croaked.

  She straightened, her fingers chilled. If he had more after so long without, he would retch, and she had no desire to deal with that. Still, she needed more water to cool him. “I’ll be right back.”

  This time as she crossed the dusty yard, Agnes and Mary waited at the well, tension and anxiety in the lines of their body. Kit wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. She didn’t have time to stop and explain anything, so she put them to work.

  “Mary, can you stable and feed the horse? Mother, would you please see if we have clean bedding?”

  Mary started off to do her bidding, but pulled up short when Agnes asked, “Who is he? What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s ill. I couldn’t leave him out there to die, it wouldn’t be right.”

  But Agnes had paled at the news. “Sick? What if he makes us all sick? What if we die here and no one knows?”

  The question was reasonable, but Kit had no answer. She only knew one way to prevent it. “I don’t want the two of you near him. I don’t want him to even know you’re here. I will take care of him and make sure he goes on his way. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “If he’s not a murderer,” Agnes murmured, her words drawing a gasp of alarm from Mary.

  “Right now he’s too sick to do anything.” Kit passed the women to draw more water, half filling the wooden bucket. “Please, Mary. Take care of the horse. Mother, the bedding? And Mary, when you’re done, could you finish the laundry?”

  She hauled the bucket back to the barracks, but the stranger was asleep. She set the water at the head of the bed and went to collect wood for the fire, hoping the flue was clear. The last thing she needed to do was clean a chimney. She hauled in two armloads of wood and was building the fire when he groaned behind her. She tugged the flue open and turned as the kindling sparked.

  She perched at the edge of the bed and brought the ladle to his lips, lifting his head. Again he drank greedily, water spilling down the sides of his throat. She used the end of her woolen wrap to dry his skin. His flesh was firm and strong beneath her fingers.

  “Food?” he rasped.

  She recognized the hopeful tone in his voice and straightened. Being hungry was a good sign. Perhaps he wasn’t as sick as she thought. Once he ate, he could be on his way. Maybe he’d tell someone about her situation and they would send supplies or an escort back to civilization. She could barely remember civilization, except that everything there wasn’t so hard.

  She tamped down the hope. Hope only led to disappointment. “In a moment. What’s your name?”

  “Trace. Trace Watson.” He let his head fall back to the pillow. “Cold.”

  “All right, Mr. Watson. I’ll find you some blankets and get this window fixed. How long have you been sick, can you tell me that?”

  But his snore caught her attention. He’d lapsed back to sleep.

  ***

  Kit stood in the middle of the tiny room, her wrap draped over the back of a rickety cot, the fire blazing, the window repaired. The fresh bedding lay on the end of the cot under her wrap. She studied Trace Watson as she tried to figure out how she could change the bed he was sprawled upon.

  Maybe she shouldn’t worry about it. He certainly didn’t seem to have trouble sleeping, though his forehead was creased with discomfort. She could just cover him with the extra blankets and leave him be. Only she couldn’t. She’d brought him here. She was responsible for his welf
are.

  When she opened the door, she was surprised to see the sun had already set, and darkness had fallen. The change of light in the western-facing room hadn’t drawn her notice. She walked across the yard to the rooms she shared with Mary and Agnes. The air had chilled, but the wind had died down, and she paused a moment to look up, hoping to see stars. Nothing. Still cloudy. Would they ever see the sun again?

  Agnes stood beside the table, spoon in one hand, pot in another. Three places were set at the table, a glop of sticky porridge in each bowl. Kit had the uncharitable thought that Agnes made a point of cooking badly so she wouldn’t be asked to do it, but she had to admit, their choices were limited.

  “Is there enough for Mr. Watson?” she asked her mother-in-law.

  “Is he awake?”

  “He will be before long. He asked for food earlier.”

  Agnes looked into the pot in dismay. “There isn’t much.”

  There never was. Kit sighed, ignoring the rumble of her stomach. “That’s all right. He can have mine.”

  “Kit, you can’t do that,” Mary protested, grasping her arm.

  “I’ll get something later.” She picked up the plate. “Is there bread?”

  Of course there wasn’t. She hadn’t had time to start the dough this morning, and neither Agnes or Mary had thought to do it. Yes, Mary had been sick for weeks, and Agnes had been caring for her, but it was time the two of them looked around and helped out without being asked. Was this helplessness what came from being raised with money?

  Battling resentment, she balanced her plate in one hand and tucked a ladder-backed chair under her other arm.

  “Where are you going?” Agnes demanded.

  “I want to watch him tonight. His fever is high, and we don’t have any more willow bark tea.” Mary had been given the last of it in her own battle with the fever.

  “So what will you do?” Agnes asked.

  “Whatever I can. Mary, can you open the door for me? I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The narrow room was hot when she returned. The raspy sound of his breathing carried above the crackle of the fire. Kit set the plate on the chair and crossed to the fire, dragging a few logs to the side of the hearth so the flames died back. Then she returned to check on Mr. Watson.

  His breathing was shallow, his mouth twisted in discomfort. She pressed a hand to his forehead and immediately snatched it back. Hot and dry, a bad combination. Poor little Daniel’s skin had felt the same before he died. But Mr. Watson was big and strong, not small like her baby. He could fight this, with her help. And then he’d be on his way.

  She took a piece of clean bedding, wet it with water from the bucket, and dabbed the cool cloth on Mr. Watson’s forehead, his cheeks and around his hairline. His eyelids fluttered and he drew a breath between his chapped lips. Kit wasn’t sure if the sound signaled discomfort or relief. She continued under his chin to his throat. His stubble caught the fabric, stealing it from her grasp so that the edge of her hand brushed over his jaw, hot and prickly. Scrambling for a barrier between them, she reclaimed the cloth and eased it behind his neck, wiping, bringing the cloth back gray with dirt and sweat. She folded the cloth, ladled water onto a clean part, and dampened the base of his throat to the opening of his faded blue shirt. Store-bought fabric, not homespun. Who was this man?

  Did it matter? Her task was to help him and send him on his way. Her other hand hovered over the buttons of his shirt. Would it help if she removed his shirt and washed his chest with cool water? Mary had felt relief when Kit had done that when she’d been suffering. As a widow, Kit was no stranger to the male form.

  But she did not know this man.

  She would wait. He seemed more peaceful now. She sat back in the chair, draping the cloth over the head of the bunk, and studied him. Big, strong, firm—when she’d hauled him in here she had felt how lean he was. He had no fat anywhere, but he was not bony. His shoulders were broad beneath his wool coat. His hair was thick and hung to his collar, shorter strands falling into his eyes. Such a beautiful color, especially in the firelight, which brought out the red. His forehead was high, his eyes tilted up just slightly, his nose a bit broad, as if it had been broken in the past, his lips full, teeth even, unstained by tobacco. Through the bristles on his jaw, she could see a hint of a dent in his chin, and she’d already witnessed the dimple in his cheek.

  Many women would find him pleasing. She would too, if he wasn’t so worrisome.

  Who was Trace Watson? And why was he out here in the wilds of Texas alone?

  ***

  He woke a little later and ate the sticky cold porridge with her help, and without complaint. Feeding a full-grown man, easing a spoon between his lips, feeling his throat work beneath her fingers as he swallowed, was a strange experience, but he didn’t even have the strength to hold the spoon.

  He fell into an exhausted sleep after the last bite of the porridge. Kit curled back into the chair, drawing her feet up under a blanket. The rumbling of her stomach couldn’t even keep her awake, and she fell asleep with her head resting on her raised knees.

  A mournful sound woke her later. Kit lifted her head to check her patient. His eyes were rolled back and he murmured something incomprehensible, over and over. She reached for the cloth, wet it again and smoothed it over his face, forehead, cheek, chin, and down to his throat. His eyes snapped into focus and this time she understood what he said as he cupped his hand around the back of her neck, threading his fingers through her hair.

  “Angel,” he whispered, and kissed her.

  Chapter Two

  His mouth was hot and dry, and the sound he made when he parted his lips over hers was pure hunger. He slid his tongue over her lips and into her mouth, stroking gently as his other hand glided down her side to span the small of her back. His mouth was tender but thorough; his desire both unmasked and coaxed hers.

  Finally she thought to push him away, placing both hands against his broad chest, with only the briefest thought of curling her hands through his hair and pressing against him, giving herself over to the kiss and the pleasure of being held, touched, cherished.

  But of course he wasn’t cherishing her—he didn’t even know what he was doing. The realization made her push harder. Her palms against his chest didn’t deter him, and the hand at her waist slid up over her ribs to curve over her breast, his thumb finding her nipple.

  That it felt so good terrified her. She broke her hand away and slapped him. He released her then and she scrambled away. By the time she was on her feet, he’d come to his senses.

  At least, he seemed to. His brown eyes were riveted on hers, and his brow furrowed. “Who—?” He stopped and cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Who are you?”

  “Katherine Barclay.”

  He wiped a hand over his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow to glance around the room. “Where am I?”

  “In a garrison east of San Felipe, the Austin colony. Where were you heading?”

  He dropped back to the mattress and stared at the ceiling, crooking his arm over his forehead, shielding his eyes. “Anywhere.”

  “How long have you been sick?” If she knew that, maybe she’d know how long she’d be responsible for him.

  “Don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand down his face.

  The sight of his long-fingered hand sent a shiver through her as she thought of that hand on her body. She shook herself out of that line of thought. The kiss had been nothing to him. He’d clearly been dreaming. “Are you hungry?”

  He flicked his gaze back to hers. “Famished. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

  She blinked. “In that case, you won’t mind that it’s porridge again. I’ll be back shortly.” She moved toward the door.

  “Miss Barclay.”

  She turned.

  “I—I apologize. I thought you were my wife. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I am not a man who would take those kinds of liberties.” He cleared his throat again. “I hope you can for
give me.”

  His wife. Relief that he wasn’t a scoundrel combined with an odd disappointment that he was married. She should have been glad of both. John hadn’t been gone a year. She closed her hands around the latch of the door. “Of course. You didn’t know what you were doing, and it won’t happen again. I’ll fetch your porridge.”

  Agnes and Mary were asleep when Kit entered their room. At least, she presumed they were asleep—the door to their bedroom was closed. She mixed up the porridge, eyeing the depleted supply of oats. She considered making more for herself but was too tense to eat, and the thought of porridge and honey didn’t tempt her palate. Now, jambalaya, that would be good. A nice ham. An apple pie.

  Her mouth watered, but no sense wishing. She tucked the bowl of porridge under her wrap and headed back across the yard.

  She pushed open the door to Mr. Watson’s room. Her heart kicked against her ribs at the sight before her.

  He was sleeping again, sprawled on his back, one hand splayed on his bare chest. His smooth skin gleamed in the firelight, stretched over hard muscles. He didn’t appear to have gone without food too long.

  She set the porridge down on the mantle and approached the bed, her hand hovering above his chest to test the heat radiating from it. He was still very warm, though his breathing was even and deep, but the fact that he hadn’t sweat out the sickness’s poison bothered her. Not quite on the mend yet. She heaved a sigh and sat in the chair by the bed. At least that would give her more time to figure out how to handle him.

  What kind of man was he? Would he be willing to help them leave here, or even send someone back for them? Or would he be in a hurry to return to his wife? Apparently they had a loving relationship, if that kiss had been a clue.

  It had been quite a kiss. She shouldn’t be thinking about that, since he was married. Since he was a stranger. Since she didn’t have time to be thinking about romance.