Sunrise Over Texas

by MJ Fredrick

  Guilty, hating that he felt the need to do this because he was the man, but not wanting him to stand in the cold air in his bare skin longer than necessary, Kit climbed into the wagon with the other women. She remained standing, gripping the rough wooden edge.

  The wagon lurched forward, then jolted to a stop, slamming the women forward against the sides as Atrius hesitated at the edge of the river. Trace clucked his tongue as he stood shivering, knee deep in the water. He tugged on the lead rope. Atrius put one hoof in the water, then another. With Trace’s urging, the horse continued at a slow, steady pace, bringing the wagon along. The wheels splashed into the river, and the bed swayed from side to side as the current rolled against it.

  Kit hadn’t thought—the wagon wasn’t sealed against the water.

  “Get up,” she ordered Mary and Agnes, who cowered in the front corner of the wagon. “Hold the bedding.” The food was safe in the iron pot they used to cook in, but the wet bedding might take a long time to dry, and they needed to stay warm. She bent to gather what she could hold. Agnes did the same as water seeped through the slats.

  Now that their clothing and bedding were safe, Kit turned her attention back to Trace. His shoulder muscles bunched as he wrapped his hand around the lead rope close to Atrius’s muzzle. Trace’s jaw clenched against the icy water flowing around his hips. Kit felt the urge to call out encouragement to him, but didn’t want to distract him.

  The wheels skidded and lost contact with the riverbed. The wagon floated a few feet downstream, the harness tight against Atrius’s body. The horse stumbled. Trace lost his grip on Atrius’s bridle and dropped beneath the water. Kit had drawn in a breath to scream his name when he emerged, whipping his hair out of his eyes.

  The wagon still floated, straining at the horse’s hindquarters. Atrius tossed his head and whinnied in panic.

  “Stand over the wheels,” Kit ordered Agnes and Mary.

  Weight over the wheels would stabilize them, and Atrius could start forward again. Trace had to get out of the water before he caught his death.

  Moving carefully, the women shifted. After a moment, the wheels touched the riverbed. Kit looked over to see Trace had gained his feet and had a grasp on Atrius’s bridle again. Trace’s face tightened grimly and the muscles in his arms flexed as he wrestled Atrius, who tossed his head and rolled his eyes.

  When they reached the riverbank, Atrius tore free of Trace and bounded onto the land, bringing the wagon rattling behind. Trace staggered out of the way and collapsed on the ground.

  Kit scrambled out of the wagon, her clean petticoat bundled in her hands. “Build a fire,” she snapped at Agnes as she dropped to the ground beside Trace.

  Gooseflesh roughened his body and his teeth chattered as she wiped the cold water from his skin with the soft cotton. She murmured his name as she dried him the best she could, chafing his naked skin with her hands. Water from his hair rolled down the indentation of his spine. Kit mopped it before it reached his wet drawers, which clung to his skin.

  “You need to get out of those,” she murmured. He’d been sick so recently. What would happen to them if he sickened again?

  She leaned close, slipping her woolen shawl about him, sliding her palm over his wide shoulders to warm him with the heat of her body. She jolted when a pile of fabric dropped in the dirt beside her.

  Trace’s clothes. She looked up to see Agnes’s tight mouth before the older woman pivoted and strode off. Kit refused to feel guilty. What choice did she have? Trace risked his life for them—couldn’t Agnes see that?

  “I can do it.” Trace reached for his shirt and struggled into it. His hands shook too much to work the buttons. She batted his hands away and took over, her knees nudging his thigh. He was so numb from being in the river, he barely felt the pressure. The chill was to the bone.

  He’d never been so cold. The warmth from Kit’s body was so tempting. The touch of her hands made him itch to grab her, pull her over him and nuzzle into her warmth. “Kit.”

  She looked up, brown eyes dark with concern.

  “I need to change my drawers,” he chattered.

  “I know.”

  He glanced past her to her family. “Can’t do it in front of you.”

  She gave him that smile he loved. “I’ll bring over the bedrolls.”

  That sounded like heaven, nestling into the soft warmth. If Kit would curl up beside him, all the better, but he knew she wouldn’t, not with Agnes and Mary near. He shook his head. “I need to see to Atrius.”

  She pressed her hand on his shoulder to hold him down. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Need to get the blood flowing again,” he countered, rolling onto one hip to rise. Right now he felt like he’d never be warm again. His feet were numb, his soft parts all drawn in, his fingers stiff.

  Her jaw set stubbornly as she sat back on her heels. “Just make sure you get out of those wet drawers. I’ll get them by the fire first thing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She rose and pivoted in one fluid move, leaving him wondering what he’d done to make her angry.

  ***

  Fire never felt so good. Trace wanted to crawl right in the middle of it. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel as if his bones were ready to snap. He’d tended Atrius, warming up some oats for the gelding. He fed the animal straight from the pan, to Agnes’s chagrin. Kit had insisted on taking the time to heat the remaining beans and coffee so Trace would have something warm in his belly. He had to admit it was working. Still, he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, curled up around the fire, wrapped in one of Kit’s soft blankets.

  It was too early to stop, though, and walking would get the blood moving again.

  When they started back on the trail, Kit hefted her rifle out of the wagon again. Trace looked at her askance.

  She gestured toward the trees lining the river. “Water. We might see animals.”

  “Do you want me to?” He motioned to the gun.

  “No, I really don’t.”

  He grinned despite the insult. “I’ll keep a lookout then.”

  Suppertime was almost upon them when the ducks came flying in low, to land on the water. Her movements calm and sure, Kit lifted the rifle to her shoulder and fired. Amid the cacophony of panicked honks, a duck dropped to the bank. Before it hit, she’d lifted the other rifle out of the wagon and fired again.

  Her cheeks flushed with accomplishment, she turned to face him. Pride rolled through Trace as he shucked his boots and tossed them in the back of the wagon, ready to wade in and retrieve the second duck from the river.

  “This is as good a place to make camp as any. Start a fire.”

  They feasted on the greasy dark meat of the duck. This meal was more jovial than last night’s, their weariness waning in the delight of good food.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Trace asked, leaning back against a log and cleaning a drumstick with his teeth.

  “My son was an excellent marksman.” Agnes set her plate aside and drew her feet deeper beneath her skirt, wrapping her arms around her knees. “He insisted we know how to shoot. Kit took to it better than the rest of us.”

  Kit smiled. “I liked it more than they did.”

  “You do have a mean streak.” He grinned across the fire at her and watched her color deepen, her eyes shine.

  “Maybe I can teach you,” she offered, her tone light.

  She was in a good mood, pleased with her ability to provide them with a good dinner. He liked seeing it and wished he could make her this happy every day. The thought brought him up short. He wasn’t making plans, wasn’t thinking ahead. She deserved someone who could. But he went along with her playfulness, for now. “Oh, better men than you have tried and failed. I was never much good.” At anything, if one believed his father.

  “You’ll be safe as long as I’m around.” She winked as she licked her fingers clean.

  Again Trace heated oats for Atrius and Kit resisted the urge to check t
he stores. Keeping the horse healthy was important. Trace knew what he was doing.

  “How far up the river is the colony?” Trace settled back by the fire after he’d tended to Atrius, stretching his feet toward it.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been,” Kit replied. “We got as far as the fort. I have no idea what’s even in the colony.”

  “It will be nice to be around people again,” Mary said with a wistful sigh. “And a store where I can buy fabric for a new dress, and hard candy, and maybe a new hat.”

  “A church,” Agnes added. “I miss the services.”

  “People are likely, and a church,” Trace said. “Perhaps a dry goods store. The rest, I’m not sure. It won’t be like New Orleans.”

  “I miss New Orleans. I wish we’d never left.” Mary plucked at her skirt.

  “Families stay together,” Agnes chided. “If we hadn’t come, Kit would have been on her own.”

  “And I never could have managed Daniel without your help,” Kit added.

  She hadn’t realized what she said until Agnes and Mary jolted at the mention of Daniel. She hadn’t lied to Trace. She didn’t talk about her child. It hurt too much. But if she didn’t start talking about him, others would forget him. She couldn’t allow that to happen even if it ripped her heart out.

  But tonight wasn’t the night to start, not when they were all looking at her with sympathy in their eyes. She rolled to her feet and walked toward the river, needing the soothing sound of the flowing water to ease her heart. A flat boulder overlooked the water and she sat on it. Ignoring the chill seeping through her skirts, she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them for warmth, then lowered her head to her knees.

  A weight dropped over her shoulders. Her wrap. She looked at Trace, hands in his pockets. She rested her cheek on her knee and gave him a small smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “Warm enough?”

  She turned her attention to the river. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.”

  “Do you want me to go?” His voice was a quiet rumble that reached into her soul and soothed it somehow.

  “You don’t have to. But I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “All right.” He crouched and rocked back on his heels, following her gaze over the water. Tension vibrated the air around him. “I want you to sleep in the wagon tonight.”

  Surprised, she turned. “Why?”

  “I want to keep a lookout tonight. These trees make me itchy.” He scanned the area, then back at her. “Too many places for someone to hide.”

  “Trace.” She slid her feet off the rock and swung around to face him. “You can’t walk the entire way and stay up all night. Especially not after what you did back when we crossed the river. You need sleep.”

  “We can’t risk someone coming up on us in the middle of the night.”

  “Then we’ll take turns. You sleep, then I sleep.”

  His mouth tightened. “I won’t leave you on your own.”

  Like John. She knew he was thinking those words. Would he ever say them, ever accuse her husband? “I was on my own before.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You have to sleep, Trace.” She climbed off the boulder and started toward camp. Being alone while everyone slept might be nice. Of course, she’d be alone with her thoughts. That might not be so nice.

  He touched her shoulder, stopping her. “Are you all right?”

  She turned. When she looked into his eyes, she realized he wasn’t talking about her staying up alone. “I won’t be the same person again. Always a part of me will be missing.”

  “I know.” He slipped a lock of her hair behind her ear. The tenderness of his gesture was almost her undoing. “You know I understand.”

  But that didn’t make it easier for her to talk. She ducked away from his touch and walked back to camp.

  ***

  A shot from a rifle woke Trace from a deep sleep. He bolted upright, searching for Kit as he tore his way out of the bedroll, her name ripping from his throat. He scrambled to his feet, gun in hand, in time to see a shadow of a figure with a rifle. He lifted his gun before he recognized the silhouette of Kit’s skirt. Lowering his rifle, he ran toward her.

  “What is it?” he whispered, aware of Agnes and Mary coming out of their cocoon in the wagon as he passed it.

  “I think I got a deer.” She grinned in the moonlight. “Get a log from the fire so we can find it.”

  “You got a deer,” he repeated, dumbfounded.

  “I think so.”

  He clapped a hand over his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry. But Trace, it’s meat.”

  “Then let’s find it.” He went back to the fire to get a piece of wood, fanned the glow to a flame and followed her.

  She’d shot a young buck, and hit it high enough on its shoulder that it was still alive when they found it. Trace jabbed the log into the earth, then unsheathed his knife and finished the job.

  “This is going to be messy.” He shucked his coat and shirt and stripped his long underwear to his waist. He sure as hell didn’t want to ride into the Austin colony drenched in blood. “Go on, now. I got this.”

  “Are you crazy? I shot him. I want to help. Show me what to do.” She tossed her wrap on top of his coat and unbuttoned her bodice, peeling down each layer until she wore only her chemise.

  He stared at her bare arms, her nipples peaked against the thin fabric. He dragged his attention away, back to the deer carcass. “Kit, you’re going to catch a fever.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He flipped the knife toward her, hilt first. “You want to do it?”

  She took the knife hesitantly, hovering the tip over the animal’s belly.

  “Not there.” He guided her hand down to the genitals. Her hands shuddered and hesitated as they sliced through the flesh. “Let me get through the bone, then you can get out the heart and lungs.”

  She nodded and handed him the knife to cut through the breastbone. He looked into her face.

  “You want me to do this?”

  She shook her head, her gaze on the gaping body. “I want to do it.”

  He watched as she sliced the heart and lungs free, and pulled them out, the organs spilling over her hands, the distasteful expression on her face priceless.

  Then he went in deeper, pulled out the esophagus and drew the guts out all together, scooping them out on the ground, warm blood slicking his arms almost to his elbows.

  “Help me turn him.”

  Working together, they rolled the buck onto his belly to drain and cool. Trace pulled up a handful of grass and scrubbed the blood from his skin. Kit imitated him, then climbed to her feet as he did. He lifted the buck by his hocks. Working together, they hung him from a tree a distance from the camp.

  “Is there something we can wrap the body in?” he asked after he worked to peel the hide away.

  She turned toward camp. “I’ll get a sheet.”

  By the time she returned, he’d finished removing the hide and the head, and he took the cloth from her to wrap the carcass. He was sweating when he was done, despite the chill in the air. He considered washing in the river, but a shiver ran through him at the thought. Still, the blood was already drying, sticky on his skin. He returned to the wagon for his jacket, then considered whether he wanted to sacrifice the shirt to bathe himself off.

  “Here. I brought this.” She handed him a drying sheet. “I’ve got water warming over the fire.”

  “That’s a smart girl. Let’s go.”

  Agnes and Mary had apparently gone back to bed, he noted as he moved to the fireplace. How they could, with all the excitement, he had no idea, but was glad of it. His own blood pulsed through him. He needed to be alone with Kit.

  Even the warm water wasn’t warm enough, so he bathed quickly, dried off and slipped back into his longjohns, then his shirt. She didn’t work as quickly. His gaze was riveted to the strokes of the clo
th she eased over her white skin, removing the barbaric red of the blood. The sight shouldn’t have aroused him, but the strength of her and the determined light in her eyes as she’d learned this new skill had added to his attraction and admiration of her.

  She met his gaze and smiled. He should have looked away but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and trailed the end of his drying sheet down her arms, from her shoulder to fingertips. She looked into his face while he repeated the caress, twining his fingers through hers, then bringing her palm to his mouth.

  Bad idea. He glanced back to ensure Agnes and Mary were in the wagon. He couldn’t make love to her here. He needed to get her dressed and warm.

  He needed for her to stop looking at him like that.

  “Get some sleep.” He drew her sleeve up her arm, unable to stop touching her.

  “I can’t. I’m too excited.” She rested her hands on his forearms, easing closer.

  “Kit.” He slid his hand around the back of her shoulders, drawing up the fabric of her dress, covering her quickly chilling skin.

  She moved nearer, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, her lips parted hopefully. Though he knew he was inviting trouble, he pulled her close and settled his mouth over hers. It was like coming home. Her hands were in his hair, her body against his, her mouth warm, her tongue seeking. She drew him down to the bedrolls, clutching his sleeves, bringing him over her. His legs tangled in the layers of her skirts as she tangled her fingers in his hair. He lifted his head, pushing her hair back from her face, looking into her shining eyes.

  Sense fled at the excitement he saw there. He pulled her bedroll over them, hiding them before pushing up her skirts, his palms skimming her thighs, parting them, pressing against her until she rolled against him, eager, murmuring his name. He shushed her as he loosened his trousers, freeing his sex. He wanted better for her than intercourse on the ground, her skirts bunched up, his pants not all the way down, but she wanted this too, wanted it now, and surged up against him to take him into her.