“I never considered the Widow Westland lovely,” Kit interjected as he ceased his labors and casually folded his arm over the top of his hoe.
Grayson glared at him. “What?”
“I rather thought she more closely resembled a piece of worn cloth,” Kit explained.
“You’d look worn, too, if you were up before the sun cooking food and washing clothes and tending to the needs of three children and a man—”
“Is she the reason we’re leaving so abruptly? You always were one to fall in love quickly.”
“I’ve never fallen in love. Fallen into infatuation, fallen into lust—but never fallen in love. And no, she is not the reason we are leaving,” he lied. “Harry is.”
Harry jerked his head back. “Me? What did I do?”
“Nothing! That’s the whole point. You never do anything.”
“She must have scorned you,” Kit said quietly. “Being scorned pricks your temper more than anything else.”
He despised the way Kit looked at him as though he could reach right into his soul and know everything he felt, everything he feared. “She did not scorn me. It’s working in this damnable heat that pricks my temper. I’d just like to see Harry work up a sweat before we go.”
“I am sweating,” Harry said. “I haven’t stopped sweating since we set foot in Galveston.”
“If you want Harry to work, you’ll have to wager him into it,” Kit said.
Harry’s face broke into a wide grin. “I haven’t had a decent wager in days.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a deck of cards. “If you cut to the high card, I’ll spend the rest of the day chopping at the ground. If I cut to the high card, you will serve as my valet on the journey to Galveston.”
Grayson smiled. He had an abundance of pent-up anger and frustration, and he knew just how to release it and gain the advantage. “I’m not a fool, Harry. I’d never trust a deck of cards in your hands, but I’m willing to accept your wager if you’re willing to go at something a bit more sporting.”
“I welcome the challenge,” Harry announced grandly.
“And I look forward to handing my hoe over to you,” Grayson taunted.
Abbie chopped at the weeds, cursing her eyes that repeatedly betrayed her by looking for Grayson Rhodes. She couldn’t forget the image of her youngest son, standing on a chair on the back porch, leaning into Grayson’s shoulder as he gingerly swiped the shaving lather from her son’s soft cheek. She tried to imagine John giving his sons the same care, and the image simply wouldn’t take hold.
The farm had always come first with John. Not that she held that against him. He was considerably older than she was, had devoted his youth to the farm. She had married him to become his helpmate. It was a silly girl of sixteen who had dreamed his devotion would swerve away from the farm and settle on her.
He had fed her body, but never her heart, never her soul. Guilt gnawed at her because try as she might, she had never come to love him. She had admired his dedication to the soil, but admiration without love made for the loneliest of nights.
She glanced up from her work and looked in the direction where she’d last seen Grayson Rhodes hacking at the ground, but he was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t like the way disappointment had her craning her neck to see where he’d gone.
“Looking for someone?” Elizabeth asked beside her.
She scowled at her sister. “I was just looking the crops over.”
“They haven’t changed since you looked ’em over five minutes ago.”
She wanted to slap that little knowing smirk right off her sister’s face. Instead she beat her hoe at the ground.
“I wish you’d tell me what he did that made you decide to send him to my place,” Elizabeth said.
Abbie clenched her teeth and buried her hoe in the soil, only willing to admit to the most insignificant of reasons. “He calls me Abbie.”
“Abbie? Where’s the harm in that? It’s your name.”
“It implies an…an intimacy…a friendship—”
“Fight!”
Abbie jerked her head around. Johnny was running away from the house, running toward the field, waving his arms wildly.
“They’re fighting!” he yelled. “Hurry! They’re fighting!”
Abbie glanced at her sister. “It’s probably Madeline Mercer’s boys. I swear they are as prone to fight as sparks are to fly upward.”
Elizabeth gave a brief nod before hiking up her skirts and running toward the house. Grateful Johnny wasn’t engaged in the fighting, Abbie followed her. She simply could not understand what possessed boys to hit one another.
A crowd had gathered at the back of her house. She heard the sickening slap of flesh against flesh, followed by a grunt and groan.
“Why isn’t someone stopping those boys?” she asked as she shouldered her way to the front. Her mouth opened so wide that her chin nearly touched her knees. It wasn’t boys fighting at all—but men. Grown men.
“Care to make a wager?”
She snapped her head around and stared into the laughing blue eyes of one of Grayson’s friends. “What?”
He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Care to make a wager on who’ll win? My money’s going on Gray. He’s in a foul mood—”
“You should stop them!” she demanded.
He chuckled softly. “I think not. It’s a gentleman’s sport. No one will get hurt.”
“A gentleman’s sport? Hitting each other?”
She glanced back at Grayson and the other man. What was his name? Harry something or other. They’d both discarded their shirts. While it was true that Grayson didn’t test the seams on her husband’s shirt, she was surprised to discover that he was more solid than she’d given him credit for. Sweat glistened over his back and had dampened the light coating of hair on his chest. His fists were raised and he danced around the other man as though familiar with the moves he would make.
The other man made a quick jab. Grayson ducked swiftly and skittered back before beginning to bounce on the balls of his feet. Abbie hadn’t expected him to be so surefooted, so graceful. She hadn’t expected his muscles to bunch and flex and appear as powerful as they did.
“Breathe, Abbie,” Elizabeth whispered near her ear.
“I am breathing,” Abbie snapped, taking her first breath in what she was certain had been several minutes.
The other man took another jab which Grayson easily sidestepped.
“Why doesn’t he strike back?” she asked.
“Patience is Grayson’s strong suit. He’ll wait until the time is right,” the man beside her explained.
She saw the women gawking, heard the boys yelling and cheering. What sort of example was this to set for the children?
“I won’t put up with fighting on my property,” she stated flatly. She took a step toward the two men dancing around each other. Then everything happened at once.
She felt fingers dig into her arm and pull her back.
“Don’t get close—” the man began.
“Get your hands off her—” Grayson yelled as he took a step toward her, just before the other man hit him.
Grayson felt the jarring pain as Harry’s fist made contact with his jaw. His head snapped back. He staggered backward before his knees buckled, and he felt the hard ground beneath him. Harry knelt beside him.
“You all right?” Harry asked.
Grayson rubbed his jaw. “You wounded my pride more than my jaw. You always had a poor punch.”
“Poor or not, I won,” Harry gloated.
Grayson saw Abbie break away from Kit and rush across the small expanse separating them. She fell to her knees. “What did you think you were doing?” she demanded.
“Trying to get Harry to work in the fields.”
She released a very unladylike snort and grabbed one of his hands. “You fool! Your palms were already blistered and now you’ve broken the skin on the top—”
“What do you care, Mrs. Westland?” He winced as Harry gra
bbed his hand and pulled him to his feet.
She rose slowly, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. “I’ll get some salve—”
“It isn’t necessary—”
“It is necessary, damn it!” Fire burned within her eyes, and damn him, he wondered if the fire had been there last night while she bathed.
“Mama?”
He glanced down and watched Lydia tug on her mother’s skirts.
“Just a minute, Lydia,” Abbie said firmly but gently. “I need to see to Mr. Rhodes’ hands.”
“But Mama—”
“Just a minute—”
“Who’s that man?” Lydia demanded in a way that very much reminded Grayson of the manner in which Abbie asked to look at his hands.
He heard Abbie’s frustrated sigh. “Which man?”
Lydia pointed her small finger toward the road. “That one.”
Grayson followed the direction of Abbie’s gaze. A man trudged up the road. His hat shadowed his face and Grayson could tell little about him except that his dingy gray clothing had obviously seen better days. He slid his gaze to Abbie. “Who is it?”
She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know. He’s too skinny to be from around here.”
“Is it my pa?” Lydia asked, bouncing up and down.
“Your pa’s dead,” Abbie said absently, her gaze trained on the man marching up the road. Then as though realizing the callousness of her statement, she knelt in front of Lydia and placed her hands on her shoulders. “Remember that I told you your pa won’t be coming home?”
“’Cuz he’s with the angels?”
“That’s right.”
“Then who’s that?”
Abbie turned her attention back to the man. He had quickened his step, left the road, and was walking toward the house. Grayson saw recognition and wonder dawn on Abbie’s face. She slowly rose and pressed her hand to her lips. “Oh my God,” she said on a whispery breath.
“Who is it, Mama?”
“Your Uncle James.” She snapped her gaze to Grayson, tears brimming in her eyes. “It’s my brother.”
He’d never in his life heard such happiness. He was ashamed of the relief that washed over him because it wasn’t her husband. What did he care if her husband suddenly rose from the dead and came home?
A small woman released a tiny screech and began running toward the man. Then Elizabeth hiked up her skirts and followed.
“You should welcome him home,” Gray said quietly.
Abbie’s gaze shifted between his eyes and his hands. “Your hands—”
“I can take care of my hands.”
She gave a brusque nod and rushed toward the man who was now holding the small woman close and twirling her in a circle. Every woman and child hurried to join them.
Grayson took the shirt that Kit offered him and shrugged into it.
“Do you think,” Kit began solemnly, “that there is a single person in all of England who would be that glad to see one of us walking down a road?”
It was a question that demanded the answer not be spoken aloud.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grayson saw Harry pick up his hoe and begin walking toward the fields. “Where are you going with my hoe?” Grayson asked as he loped across the yard and caught up to him.
“To work the fields.”
“Why? You won.”
A sadness briefly touched Harry’s eyes before he turned away. “Then why the bloody hell do I feel as though we all just lost?”
His arms crossed over his chest, Grayson stood within the doorway, watching what he’d never before witnessed: the outpouring of love that a family showered on one of its own.
No one had returned to the fields. James Morgan had been fed and hugged and fed some more. His clothes were as tattered as his spirits had been when he’d first walked into the house.
But after a while, his smiles came more easily. Grayson quickly learned that James’ wife’s name was Amy. She wept softly more than once and constantly touched her husband’s shoulder as though afraid he’d disappear. Grayson couldn’t imagine anyone rejoicing should he return home.
“I’m sorry about John,” James said quietly.
Grayson saw Abbie blush before averting her gaze. “We lost a lot of good men,” she said softly.
“We did that,” James said. He looked at Elizabeth. “I’m sorry about Daniel as well.”
Tears flooded Elizabeth’s eyes. “I keep thinking I’ll see him coming up the road just like we saw you.” Her chin quivered. “But he’s not going to come home, is he?”
James wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. “No.”
Grayson wondered if the morning he’d seen Abbie on the front porch gazing at the horizon, she’d been looking for her husband, if she missed him, if she longed to have him home.
Elizabeth made her way out of her brother’s hold and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. James looked over her head at Grayson.
“Mr. Rhodes, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you and your friends comin’ to help with our crops. I passed too many fallow fields on my way home. I was afraid we’d be in for a hard winter.”
Uncomfortable with the man’s appreciation, Grayson shifted his stance. “I’m glad we could help out,” he murmured, wondering if they would be as grateful in the morning when they learned three of them had plans to leave.
“Abbie’s never liked being alone,” James said.
“James!” Abbie snapped, her gaze darting quickly to Grayson, then back to her brother, her cheeks flaming red.
“It’s true, Abbie. There’s no shame in not wanting to be alone.”
She slapped his shoulder. “Shush up.”
Elizabeth glanced toward the door. “Lord, look how late it’s getting. We’d best head home.”
Grayson shoved away from the doorjamb. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll retrieve my belongings.”
He walked out of the house not caring if she’d give him a moment or not. He should probably just gather his possessions, walk to town, and take a room in the saloon. Kit and Harry could find him there easily enough.
His gaze fell on the fields. He’d only worked in them for two days, but he already felt as though a portion belonged to him. He had no doubt that cotton would come from the area where he’d sweated and labored. One day he’d purchase a shirt woven from cotton he’d nourished. Strange, how he found comfort in the thought—that something he’d done might have made a small difference.
He strolled into the barn. His fishing pole was leaning against the ladder that led to the loft. He’d see to it that they didn’t leave until he’d gone fishing with the lad as he’d promised. He hoped the boy knew all there was to know about fishing because Grayson had never dropped a hook into a river.
He climbed the ladder into the loft and made his way to the corner where he slept. He began to place his few possessions into his solitary bag. He’d forgotten about his clothes, but it would be easy enough to snatch them off the rope where they hung and stuff them into his bag.
He heard the creak and moan of wood as someone climbed the ladder. His hands froze.
“Mr. Rhodes?” Abbie said quietly.
Grayson shoved his favorite book into his satchel. “Tell your sister I’ll be there in a moment.”
“You don’t have to go.”
Grayson twisted his body slightly and gazed at her. Her face was barely visible over the loft platform. “I beg your pardon?”
He saw her hands tighten their hold on the ladder rung just below her chin.
“Well, I…I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe I was a bit hasty in blaming you for last night. I shouldn’t have been out there—like I was—knowing there was a man in the barn even if I thought he’d be asleep. And the boys, well, I was thinking it’s nice for them to have a man around, even though I know you won’t be staying past harvest, at least for a while…It’s good for them to have someone who can show them things like
shaving and fishing—”
“I know nothing at all about fishing.”
“Johnny does—”
“Then he doesn’t need me, does he?” he asked, wondering why he was arguing with her when he wanted desperately to stay.
“He doesn’t know how to fight,” she offered.
He rubbed his bruised jaw. “It seems neither do I.”
“I think you do. You would have beat Mr. Bainbridge if you hadn’t taken your eyes off him when you came to my rescue.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. Some rescue.
“Of course, you’d have a bed at Elizabeth’s—”
“Have I ever complained about sleeping on the straw?”
She shook her head. “That’s why I thought maybe you’d stay.”
“On one condition. That you don’t stop taking baths in the moonlight,” he said quietly.
Her cheeks flamed red, and her mouth worked to shape silent words.
“I won’t leave the barn at night, but neither do I want you giving up something that brings you pleasure.”
“You won’t come watch me?” she asked hesitantly.
He gave her a wicked grin. “Not unless I’m invited.”
“I’d never…” She shook her head. “I’ll let Elizabeth know you’re staying.”
She disappeared from his sight.
“Oh, yes, you will, Mrs. Westland,” he whispered softly. “Some night, you’ll not only invite me to watch you, but you’ll invite me to join you. The rogue in me will insist.”
4
B loody damned hell!
Grayson stared through the wide opening in the loft at the stars that blanketed the night sky. He’d tried counting sheep, the number of places where the straw pricked him, and now the stars. None of his efforts worked to lull him to sleep. He must have been insane to think he preferred sleeping in a smelly loft to sleeping in a soft bed. It was this damned irrational need of his to be wanted.
He jerked upright and tugged on his boots. He’d promised he wouldn’t leave the barn. Well, what the lovely Widow Westland didn’t know wouldn’t harm her. He climbed down the ladder and strode outside. If counting a thousand stars couldn’t put him to sleep, perhaps walking a thousand paces would.
He glanced quickly toward the house and considered, only briefly, sneaking over and peering around the corner to catch a glimpse of the woman bathing in the night shadows, but the possibility of having his broken promise discovered stopped him. Instead he slowed his pace and listened contentedly to the night sounds.
Rogues in Texas 01- A Rogue In Texas Page 5