Sunrise Over Texas

by MJ Fredrick

  “That’s very rude, you know,” he murmured once they were out of the church and standing in the yard while people approached Almanzo to meet the newcomers.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, still fighting a smile. “You have other talents, I’m sure.”

  He turned, blocking her view of the others, not wanting them to hear what he said. “Do I?”

  She blushed deeply, taking his meaning. “Mr. Watson.” Her gaze flicked past him. “You’re not likely to use that skill for a while.”

  “Really.” All he could think of was tasting her.

  She avoided his gaze. “Too many people.”

  She nudged at his shoulder to turn him around as Almanzo approached with neighbors for them to meet. Trace noticed a good number of them were single men, and he moved closer to Kit before he realized what the move meant. The men understood, though, and greeted Kit with a respectful nod before turning their obvious interest to Mary, who widened her eyes at the sudden attention. Of course. She hadn’t been of age the last time she’d been in society. She likely never thought her first suitors would be these rough-looking men.

  Kit shrank beside Trace as the stream of people came by to greet them. Trace wasn’t sure how word of the women’s survival at the fort had spread so quickly, but everyone seemed to want to ask about it. Kit’s bashfulness shouldn’t have surprised him—she was a modest woman after all—but he’d always seen her as strong, facing things head-on. This attention, however, she didn’t seem to want to deal with.

  Trace noticed that Almanzo had positioned himself beside Mary as she answered the questions Kit wouldn’t. Interesting.

  “There were Indians?” one young mother asked, her eyes wide, her voice tinged with glee. “Did you see them?”

  “We fought them,” Mary replied, shoulders straight, voice proud, avoiding Trace’s surprised gaze. Kit started coughing beside him. “They took our cow.”

  Finally, curiosity satisfied, the neighbors moved on and Almanzo escorted the ladies to the carriage.

  “Kit and I are going to walk,” Trace announced.

  Kit spun, lifting her eyebrows. “We are?”

  “It’s a beautiful day, and there’s nothing you need to hurry back for. Graciela has the meal in hand.” He took her arm and drew her away from the carriage. “We won’t be too far behind you,” he called back to the others.

  “Trace, you’re going to raise a scandal,” she protested as the carriage drove off, her mother-in-law watching her reprovingly, her sister-in-law regretfully. “We cannot indulge in relations here, or even consider it. We just attended Mass!”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about that,” he lied. Because if he could have found a warm place to make love to her, they’d have made their way straight there. Instead, they strolled down the dusty road, past winter-dry grass, out in the sun, away from the shade offered by the live oaks. They were not the only people taking advantage of the beautiful day. Other churchgoers moved in groups ahead and behind them. “Though I wouldn’t mind stealing a kiss or two.”

  Her indignation melted into a smile. “You need not steal them if we can find privacy.”

  “Which we don’t have at Almanzo’s house.”

  She sighed. “I need to speak with him. He invites me to make myself at home, but when I attempt to do so, he chides poor Graciela.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was scolded for allowing me to help with the laundering of my own clothes. I must speak with him, make him understand I can only accept so much of his charity.”

  “You have the most incredible sense of pride,” he murmured.

  “He’s a stranger to me,” she reminded him sharply. “He owes me nothing, and yet he’s giving up his own roof for the comfort of me and my family.”

  “But he owes me a great deal.”

  “Is that so? Why?”

  “He claims I was the one in trouble, but he was the one I had to rescue again and again before his father found out. He was always in one scrape or another, gambling, drinking, whoring.”

  Kit blushed to the roots of her hair. “This is the man whose home you bring us to?”

  “He was very young. We both were. I had better judgment. And I had Angelina to keep me steady.”

  He no longer felt as sad when he talked about Angelina. Was he emerging from his grief? It was too soon. He’d loved her too much and too long to be done grieving her now. He released Kit’s arm and edged away from her, knowing she was the reason, wishing he could love her without feeling guilty, without feeling as if he were betraying Angelina.

  “Would you have been wild without her?” she asked, as if she hadn’t noticed the distance he put between them.

  He inclined his head in concession. “Perhaps. My father thought I was wild enough, mainly because I wouldn’t join him in his business.”

  “Which was?”

  “Shipping. “

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was fascinated by the law. My father considered it a soft profession, since it didn’t involve working my way up with my hands the way he planned for me to.”

  “You’re a lawyer? I’ve known you all these weeks—why did I not know that?”

  “Because I don’t like to talk about what I left behind.”

  “But surely, a lawyer would be a good profession anywhere.” Her boots kicked up a puff of dirt as she cocked her head up at him.

  “Mr. Austin is a lawyer. I doubt he needs another in his colony.”

  “So what do you intend to do? Have you thought about it? Just because my future is uncertain doesn’t mean yours should be.”

  Trepidation filled her voice. Did she hope he’d stay? He’d not been certain of anything when he left New Orleans, but he was sure he wasn’t ready to walk away from her, no matter the depth of his guilt. “Stay here awhile,” he said, “see what there is to be had. Maybe move on after that. Maybe go home.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “You don’t know.”

  Of course his uncertainty would bother her, she who needed a plan for everything. “Kit, I took this trip to get away from my life. I wasn’t moving toward something, I was moving away.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t have a plan.”

  “And how well have your plans worked out for you?” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. She had control over so little. At least she had her strategies.

  She drew in a breath and her mouth tightened. “I cannot help that my husband died. It wasn’t my choice.”

  “Nor was it mine that I buried my wife and son.” He tried to soothe her ruffled feathers with his tone, but didn’t back off. He needed to make her understand his choices. “I thought I would be watching my son learn to crawl on the floor of my office, be making love to my wife, perhaps giving her another child. I thought I would be attending balls and meeting with important clients and standing before judges. Plans didn’t help me then, why would they help me now?”

  She didn’t answer, only trudged along beside him, every line in her body tight enough to snap. He’d effectively erased the joy she’d felt earlier, destroying the relaxed mood, and the knowledge hurt.

  “Kit, I’m sorry.”

  She stopped with a sigh and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need to be. I just want to know what’s going to happen next.”

  He turned, barely stopping himself from touching her. She didn’t want people to be scandalized, and his familiarity would raise questions among the other churchgoers who walked past. “No one knows what’s going to happen next, Kit. Isn’t that why you make love with me? Because of the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring?”

  “That’s not the only reason.”

  He grinned when she blushed. “I know that, but it’s the one that you give yourself permission to believe. The last thing you tell yourself before you leave your bed to come to mine.”

  She tightened her wrap, not against the chill, but against the truth of his words, and
began walking again. “That’s not so.”

  “No?”

  “It’s not the last thing I tell myself.” She tossed her head, and her eyes brightened teasingly. “I tell myself that you are very warm, and if there’s one thing I despise as much as uncertainty, it’s being cold.”

  He scowled. “Are you cold now?”

  “Decidedly not.”

  “I believe you are.” He glanced around, saw their fellow walkers had faded out of sight, and tugged her behind a tree, pinning her body between his and the trunk. He should have been remembering his resolve to keep his distance. Instead, he closed his hands about her ribs, not allowing himself the liberty of touching her breasts, though he nudged his hips into hers.

  She didn’t protest, did nothing more than smile up at him in challenge. He covered her soft mouth with his, teasing her lips apart before plunging his tongue between them. Instead of pushing him away as she should have, she twined her fingers through his hair and held him closer, pressing her body against his, her tongue sliding along his. He broke the kiss to a sound of protest, coasted his mouth up her jaw to her ear, down her throat, the same path he took when he made love to her. His hands shook with the urge to cup her breasts—her shawl hid his touch, after all, and his manhood pulsed with the desire to be inside her. He had meant this to just be a teasing kiss, not to give into this hunger for her. He stepped back, releasing her.

  She sagged against the tree, brows drawn together in confusion. “Why?”

  “Because you deserve better.” Better than being taken against a tree on the side of the road. Than being loved by a man who didn’t want to plan for anything ever again, who could move on so quickly after losing the wife he’d claimed to love. “We should get back before they come looking for us.”

  She didn’t question the logic of his statement, just took his arm and fell into step.

  ***

  After the dinner that Kit helped Graciela prepare, Almanzo, Kit and Trace sat in the sun in front of Almanzo’s cabin while Mary and Agnes tidied. Unaccustomed to being idle, Kit brought out her knitting. In addition to occupying her hands, the task would keep her gaze from wandering to Trace, who stretched his long legs in front of him and tilted his head back to the sun, eyes closed, so beautiful and healthy…

  Perhaps the knitting wasn’t as distracting as she’d hoped. She redoubled her efforts and twisted the yarn about her hand, pulling it taut.

  “Almanzo was telling me every man pulls his weight here in San Felipe,” Trace told her, shifting in his chair.

  Her rhythm faltered. He was planning to stay, then. Or at least looking into the option of it. Her heart thudded with excitement and anticipation.

  “I thought I’d ride out with the rangers on their next reconnaissance.”

  She let the knitting fall to her lap and stared. “Trace.” They’d so recently been in danger and now he wanted to return to it? Granted, he’d be with armed men and would return to the colony, but her stomach clenched to think of him encountering dangerous men like those they’d met earlier this week.

  Just like John.

  She pushed the thought out of her head. She would not live her life waiting for history to repeat itself.

  “I know what you’re going to say. I’m not the best shot.”

  She had thought it, but didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friend.

  Almanzo chuckled. “So that hasn’t changed?”

  “I can show you what John showed me,” she offered. She didn’t know why she hadn’t considered it before, except that ammunition had been dear when they were on their own, and target practice didn’t seem practical. Now they had the means to replace their ammunition. If Trace was going to be facing brigands and Indians, she wanted him prepared. She wasn’t ready to lose him.

  “Better men than you have tried,” Trace said, humor lacing his voice.

  She tucked her knitting at her side. “But there’s the difference. I’m no man. I’ll get my gun.”

  Almanzo clapped his hand to his chest. “Words I love to hear from a woman’s lips. I’ll set up the targets.”

  ***

  Trace convinced Almanzo and Kit not to teach him in front of the cabin. Humiliating enough that he couldn’t shoot, but to have the whole town know was more than his pride could take. So the three of them trekked down to the river behind the cabin, Kit carrying her rifle in one hand, Agnes’s protests that it was not ladylike ringing in their wake.

  “Kit’s marksmanship is superb,” Trace said with pride as Almanzo set a series of rocks on a boulder at the water’s edge. “She shot a duck and a deer on the journey here.”

  Almanzo sent an admiring glance in Kit’s direction, which hadn’t been Trace’s intention. “Mary said you fought of the Indians, too,” Almanzo said.

  “I didn’t have much choice.” She brushed off the approbation and handed Trace the rifle.

  He took the gun and brought it to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel. He jolted when Kit’s small hands tugged at his hips, and he looked over his shoulder to grin at her, catching Almanzo’s raised eyebrows as he did.

  But Kit was solemn as she adjusted his stance, her hands just below his belt. “You need to set your feet apart just a bit more. Shoulder width.”

  He ground his teeth against the desire that pulsed through his blood. Remembering Almanzo’s presence—and interested attention—he edged his feet apart in the dust. She dropped her hands away, stepping back. He considered changing his position again, just to feel her hands on him.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, she curved her fingers on his shoulders, pulling them straight. She let them linger there for a moment, smoothing along the seams of his shirt. A pleasant sensation buzzed through him. Perhaps target practice could be fun after all.

  “Square your shoulders,” she said, her breath warm against his back. “You’re hunched over.” She smoothed her hand down his spine before letting it fall away. He resisted the urge to turn to her, to meet her gaze, to see if her thoughts traveled the same path as his.

  But no, her voice was businesslike when she said, “Now sight down the barrel and pull the trigger.”

  He balanced the gun, aimed and squeezed. The bullet made a splash in the river. He grimaced, his pride taking a direct hit.

  “Again.”

  “She’d make a very fine commander,” Almanzo remarked, as Trace reloaded and fired again. And missed.

  He heard no sound from behind him, so he lifted his head and turned to Kit, who watched him assessingly, her finger tapping her lips.

  “What do you think, Mr. Tarleton?”

  “He doesn’t look comfortable holding the gun.”

  Trace loosened his grip on the weapon.

  “Who taught you to shoot?” she asked, her gaze on the rifle.

  “My father, when I was young. Friends since have tried.”

  She stepped forward and took the gun, holding it in front of her. “Which is your stronger eye?”

  “My stronger eye?” He wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “Try something. Turn toward me.”

  He let a grin lift the corners of his lips. “Not a hardship.”

  She met his gaze with a lifted eyebrow and his grin fell away. He turned to face her, toe to toe. She lifted the rifle between them.

  “Try holding it against your left shoulder, and pulling the trigger with your left hand.”

  He frowned, but took the gun from her and did as she instructed, sighting down the barrel. The movement felt more natural than any other time he’d picked up a weapon. Without waiting, he reloaded and fired—and hit the first rock. Twin shouts of triumph went up behind him. He reloaded and fired again, and hit the second.

  He turned to Almanzo. “Let me see your pistol.”

  Almanzo stepped forward, grinning, and handed it over. Trace checked it, loaded, and shot the last rock off the boulder. He handed the gun back to his friend and swept Kit into his arms, swinging her around.

  “
How did you know?” he asked, setting her down and smoothing her hair back from her face.

  Self-conscious, she backed away from him with a glance at Almanzo and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “When I was growing up, one of the neighbor boys shot ‘backwards,’ they called it. I’ve never seen anyone do it before, or since, but I thought, maybe…”

  “Because you’re a smart woman.”

  She blushed and took a step up the bank toward the house. “I’m going to see if Graciela needs help with supper.” She pivoted away from the men and hurried up the hill.

  ***

  “It’s not fair, you know,” Almanzo said, sitting back in the chair at his kitchen table and pouring another glass of whiskey.

  The women had gone to bed, the fire was dying in the grate, and Trace and Almanzo were sharing a batch of homemade whiskey Almanzo had acquired from one of the settlers. It was nigh on terrible, but the glow it sent through his body was almost as good as sleeping beside Kit.

  “What’s not?” Trace shifted his glass closer to Almanzo with the tips of his fingers.

  “You finding two such incredible women, when some of us can’t find one.”

  Trace considered misunderstanding. Instead, he remained quiet.

  “She’s in love with you. I could see it today in the way she looked at you.”

  “She’s grateful to me,” Trace said, pushing the idea from his head. “You’ve seen how she has to keep the scale balanced. She feels she owes me.”

  “It’s more than that. The way she touched you—there’s something more there.” Almanzo narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You haven’t used her situation to take advantage of her, have you?”

  There was no taking advantage about it. Trace had considered, when Kit first came to him, that she was doing so in payment for his help, but he’d dismissed the thought almost immediately. No woman repaying a debt could be so passionate.

  The whiskey no longer dulled his senses, and he shifted in his chair to ease his growing desire. As grateful as he was that they were safe, he missed the isolation that allowed them to be alone.

  “Are you going to stay in San Felipe?”