Sunrise Over Texas

by MJ Fredrick

  The doctor’s blue eyes softened. “This is beyond the capability of any doctor I know, Mistress. Your husband’s fate is in God’s hands.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kit gripped the rail of the ship, her eyes on the distant Louisiana shore. The ocean breeze tugged at her black bonnet, but she didn’t care if the bonnet was ripped from her.

  John had died a month ago, only days after the doctor from San Antonio left. She had buried him by the river, and afterward she had borne up Agnes and Mary in their grief. Her own heart was numb. She’d mourned her husband once, and the man she’d cared for the past month and more was not the man she’d known. She was sad, yes, that her efforts had not brought him back, that she’d lost him forever, but a peace also came with his death. He would have been so angry, if he’d been in his right mind, to be such a burden.

  Two weeks after his funeral, Kit had felt her baby move for the first time, a fluttering deep within her.

  She would be lying to say she hadn’t thought of Trace in the days after John’s death. She didn’t want to amplify the scandal of their relationship by running to her lover when her husband was barely in the ground. But her child was growing within her. A child who deserved a father.

  Agnes had fought with her over her decision to go to New Orleans. Agnes had wanted her to wait to travel back with them. The three of them had returned to San Felipe after John’s death, but Almanzo’s suit was refused. Mary wanted to go home, and Agnes would not leave without her things from the fort. Ever patient, Almanzo sent some of his rangers to retrieve the china and other belongings Trace had forced them to leave behind. Kit was sad that Mary had refused Almanzo. After all he’d done for them, Kit wanted him to find happiness.

  But Kit was done with waiting. The Wessons, a family who’d had enough of the wilds of Texas and were returning home to Alabama, were leaving and agreed to have Kit accompany them. They thought her no more than a pregnant widow, mourning the loss of her husband. At least their belief excused her melancholy behavior.

  The truth was, she didn’t know what Trace would do when she found him. She’d sent him away because her husband lived. Now she was returning to him, carrying his child, a widow once more. Would he be angry? Hurt? She was fairly certain he wouldn’t welcome her with open arms. But she had to offer him the chance to be a father to his child.

  To offer a new beginning for both of them.

  ***

  Trace sat in the bar in the French Quarter and stared into the bottom of his whiskey—good stuff, this time. Smooth enough to wipe the memory of Kit Barclay right out of his mind.

  “I should have known I’d find you here.”

  He looked up into his father’s hard eyes. When he was thirteen, Trace’s height had outpaced his father’s, and now stood a head taller, but the man’s hard eyes intimidated him still. “Were you looking for me?”

  “Your mother is worried.” His father took the barstool beside him, but no affection or concern colored his voice. “You disappear for months, then you show up again in worse shape than when you left, and you don’t come home for days. Your mother thought you’d gone back to Texas.”

  “Thinking about it.” He drained his glass and motioned to the bartender for another.

  “You running away again?”

  “Done with that. Running to, this time.”

  His father blew out an impatient breath. “Trace, what happened to you there?”

  “Fell in love.” Though his heart ached to admit it.

  “With Texas?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” He sipped from his refilled glass, staring straight ahead at the mirrored wall.

  He had never confided in his father in his life, and he wasn’t going to start now. No one knew about Kit, because he hadn’t wanted to explain how he’d screwed up. Unable to return to the house he’d shared with Angelina, he’d returned to his father’s house. He’d made arrangements to sell his house and planned to move into the rooms above his father’s office. But he needed more distance than that, he realized now. Texas should be far enough, although he couldn’t return to Kit. No, she would be back in John’s bed, perhaps carrying his child. He hadn’t contacted Almanzo, afraid that he’d write back that Kit was happy and had forgotten about him.

  He wasn’t ready to hear that. He did think about moving back to Texas, living as a bachelor in peaceful solitude where his family wouldn’t interfere with his drinking.

  “A woman came by the house looking for you.”

  The words took a moment to pierce his whiskey-fogged mind. “A woman?”

  “Blonde, young. Anxious. And lovely. What have you done, Trace, to have a young woman coming to the house looking for you?”

  Hope welled so unexpectedly he almost choked on it. He stood, taking a second to find his balance, affected by drink and emotion. “Where is she?” Already his mind raced. Only so many hotels in New Orleans…should only take a day or two to find her, unless she was staying with family. He’d never learned her maiden name.

  His father reached into his breast pocket slowly, withdrew a card, yet held it back when Trace reached for it. “Who is she? Some fortune hunter?”

  Fortune hunter, no. His fortune, his future, yes, he hoped to God. “I won’t know if I don’t go see her.”

  His father’s thin lips thinned further, and he gave him the card. Trace realized he’d never seen Kit’s handwriting. He was laying a lot on the idea that Kit was the woman his father was talking about. It wasn’t likely to be her. She was in Texas with John, carving out a new life. So why was he so certain it was?

  He read the address of the hotel, a fine one in the French Quarter, as he strode toward the door, grabbed his hat from the rack, and rushed out.

  He wished for his horse, but he walked more in the city. He’d walked to work today, and later, to the saloon. It was close enough to his father’s office to make that possible. But now he’d have to walk blocks to get to Kit.

  Each step was like moving through mud. Each block felt longer than a mile in the Texas wilderness. Then the hotel loomed above him, and he stopped.

  What if it wasn’t her? Could he deal with that disappointment? Worse, what if it was her, and she had another reason for seeking him out?

  Hell, he’d braved Indians for this woman. He could walk into a hotel lobby and see if she waited for him. Gathering himself, he strode forward, pushed through the wide gilded doors.

  He’d know her here. She’d stand out in the throng of fashionable ladies and gentlemen. He scanned the room, with its guests milling about, the women in wide dresses in silks and taffetas, the men in finely woven suits.

  Then he saw her, by the window, in the dress Agnes and Mary had made her, so plain among the finery of the hotel, but lovely on her. Her breasts strained against the bodice, and her face was fuller, rounder. Eating well in Texas, he supposed.

  Her eyes were wary, either of her surroundings or her expectation of his welcome. Doubt tightening his gut, he crossed the room. She turned to face him, fingers twisting in the strap of the reticule she held in front of her. He swept off his hat as he got close.

  “Trace.”

  He’d forgotten how he loved her voice, the deep, matter-of-fact huskiness of it. “It’s good to see you.” He couldn’t make himself ask why she was here.

  She glanced around the lobby. “Shall we—can we go for a walk?”

  He nodded and offered his arm, anticipating her touch. She hesitated a moment but curved her hand over his forearm. Just that gentle, genteel touch sent warmth rushing through him.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she murmured as they strolled toward the river.

  Was she going to make him ask? “Kit.”

  “John died last month.”

  “And you’re here—?”

  She stopped walking and turned to him, dropping her hands to her side. “I’m carrying your child, Trace.”

  His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly, which she’d hidden behind her clasped arms.
Blood drained from his face, and he couldn’t think. She was pregnant. With his child. He didn’t doubt it, given the roundness of her belly, and Kit had never been anything but honest with him.

  She waited for a response, barely breathing, her own cheeks turning rosy, and the hopeful light in her eyes dimmed as she took a step back.

  “I’m sorry. I should have written first. I just didn’t want you to find out that way.”

  Thoughts whirled through his head, bumped into each other. He should marry her. His child, his child. Her hand lifted toward the curve of her belly but dropped away as if she didn’t want to draw his attention to it.

  Angelina hadn’t been self-conscious about her pregnancy. She’d caressed her belly almost constantly, always with the most serene expression. She hadn’t dreamed she’d never be able to hold her baby.

  Kit’s expression was tight, hurt. Of course. He hadn’t said anything, couldn’t think of what to say. His emotions bounced from one extreme to another. Kit had come back to him, she was having his baby. He could lose her all over again in childbirth, as he’d lost Angelina.

  He wasn’t capable of enduring that pain again.

  But he couldn’t turn her away. Wouldn’t. He loved her.

  “We’ll get married quietly.” People would talk, no doubt. Her pregnancy was advanced enough to be noticeable, especially if they waited much longer. Certainly people would notice the early arrival of the child. If he introduced her as a friend’s widow, well, that might be the way to go, because even if she was in mourning, she would want a father for her child. “Your husband was my friend, should people ask. You need my help.”

  “Your charity, you mean.” Kit fought the tears that threatened, and hated that the effort made her voice shake. Of all the reactions she’d imagined, this wasn’t one. She hadn’t thought his proposal would include an alibi. “I didn’t come here for that.”

  “I’m trying to reason it out. People will talk.”

  Her shoulders tensed further. “I didn’t think you’d care about that.”

  He blew an exasperated breath through his nose. “I’m trying to protect you, Kit.”

  “I didn’t come here for that, either.” Didn’t he see why she’d come? She loved him, wanted to have a life with him, wanted to raise her child with him. All he could think about was the scandal.

  She’d thought she knew him. But of course he would think of the scandal. He was a lawyer from a well-to-do family. She was a pregnant widow who had given herself to him outside of wedlock. Agnes had been right. She shouldn’t have come.

  But she hadn’t been able to stay away.

  Right now, however, she didn’t want to be near him, not when his thoughts were consumed with details and decorum. She needed to give him time, to let him come to grips with the news. After all, she’d had months to get used to the idea. She just thought…no, why would she have thought he’d be happy? He’d come to her after losing the woman he loved in childbirth. Of course he didn’t want to be reminded of that so soon.

  She folded her reticule and took another step back toward the hotel. “You need—to think about what you want to do. I’m staying at the hotel under Mrs. John Barclay.”

  “You’re here alone?” The sharp words cut through the humid air.

  “I traveled from Texas with another family, but yes, I’m staying alone.”

  He stiffened, no doubt at the further impropriety. “Kit, it’s not safe. Why aren’t you staying with your family?”

  She turned away. “I haven’t been to see my mother yet.” She hadn’t wanted to see her until she knew what her future held. Yes, she could do as Trace suggested and tell everyone this was John’s baby. That would be simplest. But she would always know the truth, and she would have to live with the lie, once told.

  Trace frowned. “Let me talk to my family. Perhaps you can stay with us.”

  “I don’t want that. I can take care of myself.”

  A smile quirked his lips. “I know that better than anyone.”

  He moved toward her but didn’t reach for her. She wanted him to touch her, even in the most casual way. She wanted reassurance she’d done the right thing coming here.

  “I’ll walk you back to the hotel. May I accompany you to supper tonight?”

  Goodness, he was so stiff. She studied him, looking for the man she’d fallen in love with, given herself to, the man whose child she was having, but she didn’t see him, and her breaking heart cracked further. She turned toward the hotel and he fell into step beside her, not offering his arm this time.

  “Dinner would be fine.”

  “Your health? I mean, you’re eating all right? You’re not sick? My sister was weak with illness, but Angelina never missed a meal.” He stopped abruptly as if he realized comparing her pregnancy to his dead wife’s wasn’t a good idea.

  “I’m perfectly healthy. Perhaps you need longer to get used to the idea.”

  “Kit, I’m sorry.”

  He pushed his hand through his hair, which was shorter. Better kept. She missed the shagginess.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Then don’t say anything until you do know.” She strode away, only partly hoping he’d follow.

  ***

  What the hell was wrong with him? Trace stood at the window of his law office and looked out over the French Quarter. For months, Trace had mourned the fact that Kit was hundreds of miles away.

  Now she was blocks away and he was fretting because she’d showed up carrying his child.

  She’d come to him. Which meant she loved him. And he’d acted like a fool.

  He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and hurried out of the office.

  Once he got to her hotel, he faced a dilemma. Her room wasn’t difficult to find. Trace watched movement in the lobby, saw a bellboy with a tray carrying a single serving make his way up the stairs. If Kit was alone in the city, wouldn’t she eat in her room?

  Without thought to propriety, he hurried up the stairs, his eyes on the bellboy. He saw Kit open a door on the fourth floor to accept the tray. Once the young man left, pocketing a coin, Trace made his move. He rapped on the door and it opened right away.

  Kit’s eyes widened when she saw Trace standing in the hallway. “Trace!” She glanced down the hall. “What are you doing here?”

  “I acted like a fool before. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re acting like a fool now, for someone who was so worried about what people will think.” She hesitated, unsure of how to react.

  He took a step forward when it looked she was considering slamming the door in his face. “I missed you, Kit. God, I missed you. I thought I’d lost you.”

  After another nervous glance around the hall, she grabbed his sleeve and drew him into the room, closing the door. She took in a deep breath, and he thought she was going to berate him for coming to her room. Before she could, he scooped his hand under her hair and kissed her.

  Kissing her was like coming home. The taste of her, the softness of her lips, her body. He stroked his fingers in the fine hair at the back of her neck as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him. Her arms wound around his shoulders and she brought herself up on tiptoe to press closer, soft breasts, hard curve of her belly. He hesitated for just a moment at the sensation before sweeping his hand down to rest at the small of her back and bring her against him. She sighed and slid her fingers into his hair, loosening it from its stiffly combed style and smiling against his mouth. He whispered her name against her skin, fisting his hands in her skirt, as if that would ground him, slow down his need for her.

  She slid her hands down his arms to clasp his fingers, and she moved toward the bed.

  The large, soft-looking bed in the center of the room. As if his willpower wasn’t tested enough. They needed to talk, make plans, not fall upon each other like love-starved fools.

  But she was so beautiful, standing there with the glow of the sett
ing sun through the window lighting her from behind, her eyes alive with the same hunger that had brought him here. When she lifted her fingers to the row of buttons at her bodice, he couldn’t look away. When he tried to say her name, his mouth was dry. He watched as the fabric fell apart over the curve of her breasts, fuller beneath her chemise. He’d forgotten that benefit of pregnancy. He wasn’t breathing as the dress fell to pool at her feet.

  The swell of his child stretched the thin fabric of the chemise he had bought her.

  His child.

  The emotions that collided inside him—pride, joy and terror—nearly sent him running again. Instead he stepped toward her. Relief flickered in her eyes as he slid his arms around her waist and bent his head to hers.

  Her hands slid up his chest and made short work of the buttons of his shirt, and then her hands were on him, small and warm and strong. He broke the kiss to watch her, holding her loosely against him, and could barely catch his breath. She slid the shirt from his shoulders, skimming her hands down his skin. He said her name again when she removed her hands to lift her chemise over her head in a fluid move.

  Then she was beneath him, and over him as the swell of the child made them shift positions. Her fine hair tumbled down to catch in the stubble of his cheek, to float over his chest in an erotic caress, and she smiled, the curve of her lips making his heart kick.

  “Missed you,” he murmured, curving his hand around the back of her head and curling his body up to kiss her.

  With a few flicks of her fingers, his pants were undone and her hands curled around his sex, already aching with the need to be inside her. Her light touch had him gritting his teeth.

  “Not yet.” He needed to taste her, savor her and adore her as he had in so many fantasies these past months. Still cradling her head in his hand, he kissed the curve of her throat, her bare shoulder, her full breast, curling his tongue around her nipple until she pulled back.