by MJ Fredrick
“That’s why you fire the cannon every morning.” He scooped a mouthful of porridge, considering.
She nodded.
“When is the last time you saw Indians?”
She shook her head. “A few weeks, I guess?”
He nodded. “I’ll see about going out tomorrow.”
The table exploded in protests.
“You can’t!”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Mr. Watson, that would be foolish.” This last was from Kit. Her eyes were dark and solemn with concern. “You’ve hardly regained your strength.”
“If you stay here, you’ll starve. The cow needs food, we need food. I’m strong enough to cut grass and maybe go hunting.”
“Hunt what?” she argued. “And who will look out for you? I didn’t nurse you back to health so you could get yourself killed.”
She tossed her spoon down and started to rise, but he caught her wrist, not gently this time. “What’s your plan then, Kit? The supply wagons aren’t getting to you. You won’t leave. Where do you think the food is going to come from? Above?”
“The wagons will come.” She pulled free and stood.
He got to his feet as well. “They’ve forgotten about you. How long since the soldiers left?”
“Nearly four months, but—”
“What were they thinking, leaving three women here alone? If they’ve been gone that long, they aren’t coming back.”
“Mr. Watson!” She cast a warning glance at her mother-in-law and sister. “They’ll come.”
She was keeping hope alive for her family. He understood that. Surely she saw something had to be done.
But clearly she didn’t want to talk about it now, not in front of the other women. He eased toward the door, picking up the bucket on the way. “I’ll get water and firewood, and then I’ll say good night.”
But she’d already turned toward the sink and didn’t look at him as he left.
***
Kit shoved the covers off her bed, picked up her boots, grabbed a blanket and crept out of the room she shared with Agnes and Mary. She’d been stewing since she came to bed. What business did he have wanting to check their supplies and leaving the fort to gather food? Because he was a man? She’d done everything she could to keep her family together.
Almost everything. And still she’d lost her son. Her heart clenched in memory of that ultimate failure.
But she would rather take responsibility for that than give the responsibility to a stranger.
She wouldn’t sleep until she gave Trace Watson a piece of her mind. She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, layered her woolen wrap over that, and then slipped the door bolt as quietly as she could.
The cold night air stung her face as she ran across the yard, but she barely felt it. The heat of anger pulsed through her as she pounded on the door of his room. She shivered as a rustling sounded on the other side. The bolt slid free and the door swung open.
Trace was bare-chested, the still-flickering fire playing over the planes of muscle. His hair was mussed, but his eyes were alert, worried.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have no right.” The words came out on an explosion of breath. “Just because you’re a man and I’m a woman doesn’t mean you can come in here and start making decisions. I have taken care of them since the soldiers left.” She pressed her spread hand over her chest, needing him to understand. “I have kept them safe. They’re my responsibility. You cannot just come here and take over.”
He dragged both hands down his face and blinked slowly. “You came over here to holler at me?”
She shook her head vehemently. She didn’t want him to make light of her concerns. “I need you to see these are not your decisions to make. I’ve been making them and I’ll continue to do what’s best for my family.”
He sighed and caught her arm, pulling her into the room. When he closed the door behind her, the scent of warm sleepy male hit her and his nakedness registered, along with the disarray of his bed. Her heart thundered in her chest. What had she done, coming here? This conversation could have waited for morning. She backed toward the door, but he was so close, she couldn’t open it without bumping into him.
“I’m not trying to take over your family, Kit. I’m trying to give you help. You don’t seem to have a lot of it.”
She squared her shoulders. “Mary’s been sick and Mother has been caring for her.”
“She looked plenty healthy to me. Meanwhile, you’re running yourself into the ground.” He reached for the shirt at the end of the bed and slipped it on. “Let me pay you back for what you’ve done for me by helping you out.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t remember what as she watched his long fingers work the buttons she’d sewn on herself. She shouldn’t have come here. Damn her impulses and scrambled sense. She reached for the door behind her. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I apologize.” Before she could do more than catch a glimpse the surprise on his face, she turned and bolted.
***
She didn’t sleep at all, reliving the sight of Trace’s bare chest and the warmth it had caused to spread deep in her body. She berated herself for these thoughts as she listened to the steady breathing of her mother-in-law and Mary, but she seemed to have lost all control of her own mind.
Trace. Just thinking his name sent a wave of longing through her. Seeing his body reminded her of how lonely she was. Listening to his deep voice at dinner, even as presumptuous as he was, had made her realize how much she missed having a man around. And the smell of him…she lifted her hands to her face and breathed it in. Yes, her soap, but his scent underneath.
He was married, and John had been gone just a few months. She had to put these thoughts out of her head. They were disgraceful, and disrespectful to her husband’s memory.
She rose from bed as the sky began to brighten, wishing she had something to make for breakfast besides porridge. At least she’d get an early start on the bread, and the laundry. That would keep her busy while Trace risked his life to feed her cow.
He knocked on the door as she slid the bread into the oven. Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked over and opened the door to see him standing there with a bucket of water from the well and another of—
“Milk!” Delight raced through her as she reached for the bucket, taking it from him. Not much liquid, but it lay thick and creamy in the bottom of the small bucket.
Her mind raced through all the possibilities. They could put it in their coffee, or she could make butter, or, oh, how she wished she had eggs, she’d make flapjacks. She was so hungry for flapjacks.
She looked up at Trace. The dimples were in full evidence and his eyes were bright with pride. “How did you get it?”
He leaned close, as if sharing a playful secret, filling her senses with his scent again. “I promised her I’d take her out today if she gave me what she had.”
Kit laughed and spun away, feeling a lightness that had been lacking for months. Her first instinct was to beat it down, but she stopped herself. No need to punish herself for finding joy in the prospect of a taste of milk.
“You charm cows into giving up their milk?” she asked him.
“I’m out of practice otherwise.”
Now what did that mean? Despite herself, she glanced over to see him watching her. She swayed toward him against her will, and the bedroom door opened.
“Mr. Watson. You’re up early,” Agnes declared. “Are you leaving today?”
“Not before I get the stores taken care of,” he said easily.
“There’s milk,” Kit announced, holding up the bucket. “Shall we have some in our coffee? I’m afraid there’s not enough to make butter. That would be lovely.”
“Milk!” Pleasure lit Mary’s face as she entered the room. “Oh, yes, please!”
They ate breakfast in a jovial mood. Amazing what a little milk could do to raise their hopes. Kit left Mary and Agnes to
take care of the dishes while she accompanied Trace outside to his horse.
“I checked on him yesterday,” Trace said when they entered the stable. He rubbed a hand down the gelding’s neck. “You did a good job of taking care of him too. Thank you. He was a gift.”
From who? Kit wondered, but she’d already revealed too much of herself. She needed to draw back. She probably shouldn’t tell him she’d planned on butchering his horse if he died. “The Indians attack from the southwest, so keep an eye out in that direction. I can keep watch on the wall—”
He shook his head as he hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back, pausing just a beat after, to catch his breath. He straightened, speaking briskly as he cinched the saddle and strapped his rifle to the back. “I can take care of myself.”
Not so soon after he’d been ill. The man should know his own limits. What would she do if anything happened to him? Could she go look for him? “There have been outlaws, too, so any direction is dangerous, but the Indians are the biggest threat. I’ll go fire the cannon—”
“Kit.”
He lifted a finger as if he wanted to touch it to her lips, but let it fall away along with his gaze as his brow furrowed.
“I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”
Wishing she could be as certain, she backed away as he led Atrius out of the stable, then out of the fort.
***
Trace knew he probably shouldn’t be thinking about Kit’s soft curves, or the shape of her mouth, or her voice, or anything about her when he was out in the open in enemy territory. But only thoughts of her kept him swinging the scythe when his arm felt like it could drop off. He needed to stay aware that every blow could mask the sound of the enemy approaching.
He hadn’t thought it possible to think of a woman this way after Angelina’s death. He’d loved her with a passion that burned him up from the inside; he hadn’t thought another woman could enflame his thoughts. But Kit was incredible, in a different way from Angelina. Her strength and determination only added to her beauty.
He needed to shut down those feelings. He owed it to Angelina’s memory, and to himself. He’d help Kit and her family, but wouldn’t allow more.
The grass was dry and sharp and cut into his skin as he stacked it on the ground, preparing to bundle it and tie it to Atrius’s hindquarters to carry back into the fort. He’d worked up a sweat despite the chilling wind that bit through his coat. His heart beat faster, unused to the physical labor after being sick for so long, and his lungs had trouble keeping up with his need for air, so he had to rest more often than he was accustomed to doing.
Atrius grazed lazily nearby, not minding the sharp edges of the grass that cut Trace’s skin. Trace kept an eye on his horse, knowing the animal would be alert to danger. He’d considered bringing the cow out as well, but cattle could be damned stubborn when it came to moving, and he might have to get back inside the fort in a hurry.
He had to get these women to safety and civilization. Austin’s colony of San Felipe, maybe—but how? He hadn’t seen any conveyance to carry them, and the walk to the Brazos River would be long and treacherous.
Worse, he hadn’t seen any wildlife since he’d been out here, beyond the occasional duck, and he wasn’t the marksman to get one of those, unless he used Kit’s cannon.
They could kill the cow. He hadn’t butchered an animal before, though he had hunted, but Kit had told him that she couldn’t bring herself to kill the gentle-eyed animal. If he killed their cow, would they be able to eat it?
If he knew more about Texas, he’d know better how to feed them. But hell, nothing was growing out here but this high grass. At least the animals would eat well. Perhaps tomorrow he could go farther afield to see if he could get a deer. Even a scrawny one would be better than what they had now. If he never had porridge again, he’d be a happy man. It sure didn’t last long in the stomach.
Finally he had to admit he couldn’t work any longer. Even the walk back might take too much out of him, and since Atrius was hauling the grass, Trace couldn’t ride. His arms were limp, but he forced his fingers to fold around Atrius’s bridle. He hung on, matching his gait to the horse’s amble.
His legs were shaky when he reached the fort. Kit waited at the gates. Her apron was twisted and wrinkled. Had she been that worried about him? He nodded a greeting, too tired to form words, and headed toward the stables.
“You overdid it.”
He shook his head, but even that was an effort.
She gripped his arm and despite his best effort, he stumbled. There was no place to sit in the stable, so he braced his elbows on the edge of a stall. He could sense her tremors behind him and figured she was fighting the need to say she told him so.
He appreciated her restraint.
“I’ll get the animals taken care of.” Tension vibrated her voice. “You go straight to bed.”
That sounded like heaven, as soon as he got his strength. He had managed to get to the fort before he became as weak as an infant. He could make it a few more steps.
He straightened and slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “Do you have any milk left?”
She frowned. “We started to make butter.”
He drew his hand from his coat and produced four tiny eggs. “Is there something you can do with these? I almost stepped on them. Quail eggs, I think.”
“Oh!”
The delight in her voice sent a shiver of joy down his backbone. She took the eggs from him as if they were gold.
“Oh, I know just what to do! Thank you, Trace!” Careful of the eggs, she flung her other arm about his neck in an exuberant hug. “We’ll have a special dinner! Let me put these away, and I’ll tend to the animals. You have time for a nap. You’ve earned it.” She whirled and hurried toward the kitchen, leaving him grinning like an idiot.
***
“Next time I’m going out with you.” Kit polished off the last of her flapjacks, which didn’t quite live up to her memory. What ingredient had she left out? “If we find enough nests maybe we can have eggs for dinner. Oh, or do you think you could shoot the quail?”
“They’re a bit small,” he admitted, dragging a bite of the not-quite-fluffy pastry through the honey she’d brought out.
“You are not going out there,” Agnes declared, though she hadn’t left a crumb of her own dinner. “Just because nothing happened to Mr. Watson today doesn’t mean nothing will happen the next time. You risk too much.”
“But eggs, Mother!” Kit folded her napkin and leaned back in her chair, her stomach satisfied for the first time in weeks. “And Tra—Mr. Watson said Atrius is a good watchman. As soon as Mr. Watson is feeling more rested, we should go out again.”
Agnes made a sound, the tightness of her mouth making Kit wonder if she’d caught the slip.
“A lot of good his warning will do. A horse can hardly fight beside you, can he? And if he doesn’t give you enough warning, then what?”
“There has to be a way,” Kit said stubbornly.
“There might not be many nests this time of year,” Trace said cautiously. “I might have found the last. And we’re lucky they weren’t rotten.”
Kit’s enthusiasm dimmed. She was just so sick of porridge. “Maybe the cow will start giving milk.”
“She ate enough.” Trace cradled his coffee cup in both hands. “I’ll be cleaning out the stall tomorrow.” He set his cup down and sat back, his attention on Kit. “We need to think how we’re going to leave here. I don’t see a wagon or cart anywhere. How did you ladies get here?”
“The soldiers took one cart, but left us another. It’s outside the walls. It does us no good, since the horse died soon after the soldiers left,” Kit said, every ounce of joy drained. She stood and gathered the plates.
He pushed his chair back from the table and fisted his hands as if he wanted to reach for her. “Why didn’t you leave with the soldiers? Did you know about your husband at the time?”
She didn’t meet his gaze. Couldn�
��t. Why did he press? “I knew.”
“So why did you stay here, alone?” His voice sharpened. “Why did the soldiers leave you behind?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked to the basin. She didn’t talk about Daniel, couldn’t even think about him without her heart breaking in tiny pieces, and she didn’t want to fall apart, not tonight. Why had Trace ruined everything with talk of leaving here?
“I was ill,” Mary offered. “It was my fault. I couldn’t travel, so we told the soldiers to go without us. Two stayed with us, but they were too sick to travel in any case.”
“Brave men,” Trace growled, rising, his attention still on Kit. “To leave three helpless women here in this place.”
That, Kit couldn’t bear. She pivoted, bracing her hands behind her on the basin. “Helpless? Do you think I’m helpless, Trace Watson?”
“No, ma’am.” He spread his hands in front of himself in surrender. “But those men could have done more than showed you how to use a cannon. At the very least they could have sent someone to come back for you. Now I’m thinking if we have a wagon—”
“I’m not leaving.”
He stared, mouth open, midsentence. He closed his mouth, frowning. “You can’t stay here.”
“Who says I can’t?”
He folded his arms. “All right. Why do you want to?”
She couldn’t look into his eyes and lie to him, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, so she turned to the basin. “You can take Mother and Mary. You should take them. But I’m staying.”
Confused, Trace glanced at Mary and Mrs. Barclay, but they offered him no clue, not even meeting his gaze. He dared not touch Kit’s tense shoulders to try to calm her, not as upset as she was—and especially not with her mother-in-law looking on. That he wanted to touch her so badly surprised him. He fisted his hands against the sensation.
“Is there anything else you’d have me do tonight?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. Was she crying? He thought he caught a shuddering breath.
“Kit.”
“No, you’ve done so much already. I thank you.” But she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at him.