by MJ Fredrick
“I did nothing to disrespect John or myself.” Kit slipped on her stockings, then reached for her boots. More resentment bubbled when she saw the fire had died down. Though Agnes, and Mary beyond her, were fully dressed, neither had started it again—or breakfast either, for that matter. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Trace returned, carrying the water to the stove and stoking the fire. If Kit hadn’t already begun to feel tenderness for him, that act would have won her over. He saw what needed to be done and did it. Kit snatched her attention from him and faced her mother-in-law.
Something besides anger played behind Agnes’s eyes, something beyond disappointment in her. Kit bit her lower lip, afraid of what Agnes might read in her own expression, because when she looked at Trace, she had one primary emotion.
Longing.
“You need to get dressed,” Agnes prompted.
But Kit was unwilling to leave Trace to her mother-in-law’s wrath, so she crossed the room to start the stove for the loathed porridge. She inspected the amount of oats in the jar and of flour in the tin. Not much at all. She’d have to check the storeroom, though she knew every last grain remaining. They wouldn’t last until spring. She rubbed the heel of her hand between her eyes.
“I’m going hunting today,” Trace announced.
Her joy evaporated. She spun toward him. “No! You can’t! The Indians—”
“We need the food, Kit. If I can’t find something, I’ll at least bring more food back for the animals. If the cow stops giving milk again, well, at least she won’t be too thin to eat.”
“No!” Mary cried. “You can’t butcher her.”
“I will if I need to.” He turned toward the girl. “It’s a long way until spring.”
“You need not stay, Mr. Watson,” Agnes said. “We managed fine on our own, and you eat more than the three of us together.”
That wasn’t true. Kit’s heart ached to see the flush of shame staining Trace’s cheeks.
“I intend to do my part, ma’am. I’m not leaving three women out here on the frontier.”
The unspoken finish to his declaration was “like John did.”
“Trace, you can’t go off by yourself,” Kit protested softly. She needed him here.
His gaze met hers, his brown eyes warm, as if he understood her fear. “You know I have to.”
Someone had to. She tilted her head, feeling just a touch of lightness in her soul. “Maybe I should go. I’m a better shot.”
He gifted her with a dimpled smile. “You are at that, but my horse knows me. I’ll be back before nightfall.”
He gave her a nod and was gone. Every ounce of will was required to keep her at the stove as she heard Atrius’s hoofbeats ride out.
The tasks that usually busied her throughout the day were interminable. She didn’t hear any of what Mary chattered about as they laundered and cooked and sewed, because her ears strained for the sound of horses, or gunfire, or any sign that he was coming back.
“Are you in love with him?”
Mary’s question broke through Kit’s reverie. “Am I what?”
“Are you in love with Mr. Watson? He’s very handsome, now that he’s shaved, and he’s brave too. Are you in love with him? Wouldn’t you have to be, to let him curl up against you like that? You looked so content.”
Kit shook her head sharply. She had been content, and secure, too, wrapped in his arms. But she couldn’t confess such a thing to her young sister-in-law. What would the girl think of her? “I don’t love him. Of course I don’t. I don’t even know him.” Feeling safe with a man, feeling as if she could trust him wasn’t the same thing as being in love. Neither was craving his touch, his smile. Was it? She forced a smile to cover her babbling. “Have you been reading my novels?”
Mary dipped her head, a smile playing on her own lips. “Perhaps. But you have to admit, he’s very handsome, and it’s nice to have a man around again. He makes me feel safe.”
There was her answer. If he caused the same feelings in Mary, it couldn’t be love. Still, she wished he’d hurry back. She didn’t care if he brought food, as long as he returned whole.
When he hadn’t returned by late afternoon, she started pacing the floors. Her mind raced through every possibility. Had the Indians captured him? Outlaws? Had he gotten lost? Had he been hurt?
Had he decided not to come back?
As much as she didn’t want to think he would abandon them, she couldn’t have blamed him if he had. They were nothing to him. He didn’t need to stay here and starve. He had every right to go.
Still, fear tightened her chest. She resisted the urge to go to his room to make sure he hadn’t taken his belongings.
Then she saw movement on the horizon. Her heart turned over and she leaned on the wall, as if leaning those few inches would help her see farther. Was it him? Karankawa? Brigands? The sun was already sinking, making shadows stretch, distorting her perception. One man with a long shadow, or many men? Once again, she hadn’t brought her rifle. She hesitated a moment, then ran down for it. By the time she reached the top of the wall again, Trace and Atrius were close enough to identify.
Something was draped over Atrius’s rump.
Excitement surged through her. Relief and joy weakened her knees. Was Mary right? Was she falling in love with Trace Watson?
She had the presence of mind to scan the area for any other signs of life before she raced down the stairs and out the big wooden doors toward him. He was farther out than she thought, but when he saw her, he kicked Atrius into a lope.
Breathless, he grinned as he reined in beside her. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his hand curled around the saddle horn. She thought, for a breathless minute, that he might kiss her, but he didn’t touch her, instead backing toward Atrius’s rump. She followed his movement.
An animal wasn’t draped there, only more grass. Better grass, but grass. Not meat. Not food. Disappointment slammed into her, and she willed her stomach not to growl in protest. She couldn’t let Trace see her reaction. He had to be disappointed himself.
“You’re safe,” she said instead.
“Yeah. I didn’t see anyone.” He looped Atrius’s reins around his hand and started for the fort. She fell into step with him on the other side of the horse. “I rode for a long time, toward the Austin colony. We can make the trip, Kit.”
She stiffened. “Trace.”
“We need to go. I found some deer, but they were dead. Diseased or something. That worries me.”
“We have the wagon, but no team.”
“Atrius can pull it.”
She shook her head, thinking of the rickety two-wheeled wagon, meant to be pulled by at least two animals. “It will ruin him.”
Trace’s mouth tightened as he considered. “We’ll walk when we can. It will take a long time. But he’s strong. He can take it.” He stopped to face her, and slid his hand down her arm to her hand. “Can you?”
No. She didn’t say it, didn’t want him to know she was thinking it. But he did, apparently, because he cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face to look into her eyes.
“You have to go on.”
“Why?” She backed away, breaking the contact. “I don’t want to go on, live the rest of my life with the memory of burying my child and then leaving him.”
Sorrow creased his forehead and he moved toward her, catching both her hands in both of his, not allowing her to escape him this time. The leather of the reins was warm in his palm. She pulled back but he didn’t let her go.
“Trace, please.”
He released one hand to curve his around the back of her neck. “I don’t know what that must have been like, Kit, and I won’t pretend. But you’re young and—”
She did pull free then, and turned away. “Says the man who ran away when his family died.”
Sorrow darkened his eyes. “I’m learning as I go. Maybe I needed to get away to see that. Maybe you have to get away too.”
>
She folded her arms about herself, hugging her elbows. She felt so cold, and not because of the wind. “If I leave him here, he’ll be forgotten.”
“What?”
She waved her hand at the fort, not expecting him to understand. His wife and child were likely in the cemetery, with a stone marking their graves, blessed by a priest. “No one will come back here after we’re gone. No one will know my child is here.”
“He isn’t here, Kit. Don’t you believe he’s in heaven?”
She prayed every night, but the act and the emotion were separate. “I want to. But the part of him that grew in my body, Trace. That part of him is here.”
She let herself forget the danger that surrounded them, just for a moment, and sagged against him, let him wrap his arms around her, smooth her hair, murmur soothing noises. Allowing him to hold her up felt so good. So good.
“You’ve done so much to keep them safe, to keep them together.” His words penetrated the haze of her tears, vibrated beneath her cheek. “You know this is what we need to do.”
“I’m afraid.” But she wouldn’t place the burden of leaving her behind on Trace.
He chuckled. She drew away to frown up at him.
“I’ve never met a woman less afraid than you.”
“I do what I have to do. And I suppose this is something else I have to do.” Leave her child behind. She suppressed a shudder of pain as she stepped back. She couldn’t look at him now, couldn’t show him that weakness. “I’ll show you the wagon. We can leave as soon as you think it’s safe.”
Chapter Six
Kit’s heart did a little kick when Trace walked through the door of their rooms, like he belonged, like he’d always been there. She drew a deep breath, inhaling his scent, shivering as it tickled places deep inside her. The memory of his arms around her made her ache to step into them once again, but she shook off the desire to lean on him. She turned to the table with the pan of toasted bread and set it in front of Mary.
“How does the wagon look?” she asked as Trace cleaned up at the basin with water he’d brought in.
He turned a towel over in his hands and rested his hip on the basin as he leveled his gaze at her. “It needs some work to make it that many miles, but I think we can leave by week’s end.”
“Leave?” Agnes’s voice rang through the room. “We’re leaving?”
“We can’t stay.” Kit attempted to keep her tone reasonable, though panic threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought about leaving the fort, never to return. “There’s no food, no wildlife. We have to go.”
“But you didn’t want to go.”
“We couldn’t go before.” Kit turned back to the stove, unwilling to let Agnes see her own doubts. “We didn’t have the means. Now we have Trace’s horse.”
“What about the Indians?” Agnes lowered her voice on the last word. “Did you take them into account?”
Kit suppressed a shudder of fear. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on that danger. She hadn’t let herself travel beyond these walls in her mind’s eye. Walking through the doors would be the hard part. If they were captured by the Karankawas—well, starving might be preferable. “Of course we took them into account,” Kit murmured. “But it’s either risk that or starve.” She addressed Trace, who’d taken his place at the table. “We’ll have to cook what we can to take with us. And find something to shelter us in the wagon.”
He curved his hand around his mug of water. “I don’t suppose you have bedrolls.”
“We could make them, if there’s time.” She sat across from him. How could she feel so afraid and so safe at once? As terrifying as it was to put her future in his hands, it was also a relief.
He nodded, waiting his turn as the women selected their toasted bread before leaning over to claim his own. “Good idea. And find anything we can carry water in. We’re only taking what we need. We’ll be walking most of the way, but I don’t want to make the wagon too heavy for Atrius to pull.”
Agnes’s head snapped up. “What about my china dishes? They belonged to my grandmother, came with her from France!”
Trace shook his head. “You can send soldiers back for it later, but we can’t bring it with us now. We have to be frugal. Food, something to keep us warm, water.”
“How long do you think it will take us to reach the Austin colony?” Kit preferred to think about the practicalities and not the what-ifs. The what-ifs could make her insane, make her too afraid to walk through those doors no matter what fate awaited her here.
He lifted his shoulder. “Not exactly sure how far we are. Two weeks, maybe.”
Two weeks of being out in the open, three women and a man, four guns, one horse. If anything happened to Atrius, what would happen to them? No. No what-ifs. They would reach San Felipe safely and plan their next step from there.
“Can we bring Bessy?” Mary asked.
Trace’s eyebrows quirked. “Who’s Bessy?”
“The cow,” the women said together.
Kit held her breath as Trace considered. She hated to admit it, but she was attached to the cow, with her big gentle eyes and soft moo and uncomplaining demeanor.
Trace looked from Mary to Kit, then shrugged. “We’ll see how far she can make it, but once she starts slowing us down, we’ll cut her loose. She’ll have plenty to eat out there.”
“Or she’ll be eaten by the Indians,” Mary muttered, not liking his response.
Maybe that was why the Indians had attacked the other night. Maybe they were hungry too, unable to find any game, and had come looking for food. Now there would be no walls between her family and the enemy. Kit shuddered and rose to take her plate to the sink.
Trace rose too. “I’ll take care of the animals and draw some water for tonight. You need anything else before I turn in?”
She saw the circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Going hunting today must have been stressful for him, out there on his own, knowing he needed to bring back food. He hadn’t fully recovered from his illness. Was he pushing too hard? Could she make him stop? She didn’t think so. “No, I think we’re fine.”
He glanced past her to check the wood on the hearth and nodded. His gaze lingered on Kit a moment before he said, “Okay, then. Good night, ladies.”
Before Kit could pull herself out of the warming effect of his gaze, Agnes whirled on Kit. “Did you let him talk you into this?”
Kit couldn’t afford to let Agnes talk her out of this decision. She knew it wouldn’t take much effort, even though she knew leaving was the practical thing to do. “We’re hungry, Mother.” She reached for the older woman’s plate out of habit. “The food is running out.”
“Thanks to him.” Agnes jerked a hand toward the door.
Kit stacked on Mary’s plate too. “He’s only been here a little more than a week. We were low on supplies before that.”
“So we’ll risk being killed by Indians or the men who killed my son?”
Kit turned to the sideboard. “Trace went out today and didn’t see anyone.”
“So that means it’s safe? And when did you start calling him by his given name?”
Kit shook her head, unwilling to rise to the bait, but Agnes didn’t let go.
“Are you planning to replace my son with this man?”
Kit lifted her head and held back her weary sigh. “I’m not planning on replacing John. But Trace has our best interests in mind. I trust him.”
“I don’t. You shouldn’t either. You should respect my son’s memory more, as I did his father’s.” Agnes pivoted and left the room, slamming the bedroom door.
Kit fought frustrated tears as she finished the dishes. The thought of traveling to the Austin colony terrified her. When they’d traveled here from Louisiana, they’d had a company of soldiers and a good store of food—dried meats and beans and rice. This time they’d only have bread and porridge. She might have a few beans remaining. She’d have to check. That would be good travel food, would keep them wa
rm. The middle of January was cold even in Texas, but maybe the weather would keep them safe from marauders.
She needed Trace’s reassurance that everything would be all right. She needed his strength. She hadn’t realized how she’d come to look forward to sitting with him when he was ill. But now he was well enough that going to his room alone could be considered scandalous, if they were in society.
Kit couldn’t convince herself that it mattered. She wanted to be near him.
She reached for her wrap by the door. “I’m going to go check in the store room, then make some plans with Mr. Watson.”
“You mean Trace,” Mary chided.
Kit almost changed her mind when she saw the knowing look on the girl’s face. The girl would jump to romantic conclusions despite whatever excuse Kit gave her. He was hale and hearty and very much a man. But she’d made her decision and didn’t have the willpower to talk herself out of it. She’d made the choice last night when the Indians attacked. She just hadn’t had the courage to act.
“I’ll be back later,” she told Mary, and bolted.
Kit nearly lost her nerve when she reached his door. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and knocked, barely hearing the sound above the beating of her own heart. A second later, he unbolted the door. For a moment, her mind blanked as she stared at the expanse of muscular chest at her eye level, but she gave herself a mental kick and lifted her gaze to his face. His expression was tight with concern.
“Indians?” he asked.
She shook her head, pushing her hair back with a shaking hand. “I was thinking, maybe, we should think about our route. Do you have a map?”
“A map?” He scrubbed his hand over his face wearily, still leaning on the door.
He was exhausted. She was foolish for being here. But she couldn’t talk herself into walking away.
“You came here from Louisiana, heading for San Felipe. Did you have a map?”