Rogues in Texas 01- A Rogue In Texas

by Lorraine Heath

  Her gaze strayed from her son to the man sitting astride a bay stallion. The battered hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head as he talked with her son. He pointed toward the three poles that he’d embedded earlier in the ground along the road that led away from the farm. The poles were set an equal distance from each other, a metal ring dangling from each pole.

  She wrapped her arms around the pillar, the way she had never wrapped them around a man, the way she often found herself of late thinking of wrapping them around Grayson. He possessed a sturdiness that she hadn’t noticed when she first met him. He always grumbled at the ungodly hour they awoke—yet he walked the fields with her in the predawn. She anticipated those quiet moments, enjoyed his presence. She couldn’t give a reason behind her feelings—they simply existed. Feelings she’d never experienced, frightening her as much as they excited her, causing a dull ache whenever she thought of Grayson leaving.

  And leave he would. She knew that. For there was nothing here to entice a man such as he was to stay.

  She watched as Grayson lifted his makeshift lance. Johnny bobbed his head as he listened intently. Grayson sidled his horse away from Johnny’s, leaned over the horse’s neck, and with one hand on the reins, the other on the lance, he urged his horse into a gallop.

  Abbie’s breath backed up within her lungs. She didn’t know a man in Fortune who couldn’t ride like the wind, but Lord, they weren’t nearly as graceful as he was. He slipped the lance through a ring, snatching it from the pole. Excitement rippled through her, and even when the lance only bounced off the second ring, it did nothing to diminish the thrill of watching Grayson gallop down the road. He snagged the third ring and turned his horse, galloping back toward the house.

  Smiling broadly, he drew his horse to a halt. “What do you think?”

  “I didn’t expect you to ride so well,” she admitted, returning his smile.

  He laughed. “Dear God, Abbie. Sometimes I get the impression that you think I did little more in England than lounge in bed and drink wine all day.”

  “Where did you learn to ride?”

  “Hunting foxes can get rather vigorous. One must learn to move with the horse.” He slid the two rings off the lance. “Micah, do you want to help me put these back into place so Johnny can have a go?”

  Micah hopped up from the porch. Grayson handed the lance off to Johnny before lifting Micah onto the horse. Then he urged his horse back toward the poles.

  “I sure do like him, Ma,” Johnny said.

  “He won’t be staying,” she told him, reminding herself as well.

  “He might if you asked.”

  “Women don’t ask men to stay.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s just not done.” She watched Micah reach up and hang a ring. She heard his deep throaty laughter and wondered what Grayson had told him.

  “We sure laugh a lot more,” Johnny said.

  Abbie nodded, deciding she’d find a way to keep the laughter even if she couldn’t keep the man. Grayson brought Micah back to the porch and lowered him to the ground before turning his attention to Johnny.

  “Ready, lad?”

  Johnny nodded so hard that Abbie was surprised his head didn’t go flying off. She couldn’t remember a time when her children had been so eager to do anything.

  “You want to keep the lance tucked in close to your body,” Grayson said. “Keep your gaze focused on the rings.”

  “Can we add more rings?” Johnny asked.

  “Let’s master these first, and then we’ll see about adding rings for the tournament.”

  Abbie furrowed her brow. “What tournament?”

  Grayson cleared his throat. “I thought that perhaps before we begin picking the cotton, we might have a day of celebration. A picnic. Some games. A tournament. I found a pretty piece of land that would serve us well.”

  “Just us?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Don’t you think it would be more fun if we invited the whole community?”

  “Not if the men and women split up halfway through the afternoon.”

  Abbie laughed. “You’re still upset about the afternoon we went swimming.”

  “I’m not upset. I simply prefer not to miss any moments when you might actually be enjoying yourself. Your eyes too seldom carry a sparkle, and I can’t hoard the memories if I’m condemned to spend the afternoon in the company of men.”

  Happiness was fleeting. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t for the life of her remember any time when she’d felt such joy. “I think it would be more fun if everyone were invited.”

  She thought she saw disappointment touch his eyes before he nodded brusquely. “Very well. Invite the whole bloody state, but I don’t want you working to feed the lot of them.”

  “I promise I’ll only work to feed you and the children.” Her words didn’t seem to appease him, so she added, “If we invited everyone, we could have music.”

  His eyes brightened. “Music? Where in God’s name would you get an orchestra?”

  “Some of the men play fiddles, harmonicas—”

  “Fiddles and harmonicas. I suppose beggars don’t have the luxury of choosing.”

  “We make do with what we have. Nothing is gained by wishing for what can never be.”

  “I disagree, Abbie. I think wishing is responsible for some of the greatest accomplishments of the world. Long ago, men walked to the edge of the land and stared at the ocean. What if no one had ever wished to cross it?”

  “Wishing breeds discontent.”

  “Is that why you don’t dream, Abbie?” he asked quietly.

  She felt her children’s gazes on her and wondered how this conversation had ever managed to travel the road that it did. “I dream,” she insisted.

  “What do you dream?”

  “That my children will never go hungry.”

  “And what do you dream for yourself?”

  She searched her mind for a reply, wanting desperately to find something. But all she found was empty desires.

  He leaned low, and she met his gaze. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I’ll teach you how to dream for yourself. Being the selfish man that I am, I’m an expert.”

  She felt her breath hitch. She didn’t know which melted her heart more—when he called her Abbie or when he called her sweetheart. Turning his horse away, he urged it toward Johnny. He gave her son further instructions, and she wondered why he considered himself selfish. He gave far more to her and the children than he ever seemed to take.

  She saw Johnny give a curt nod before urging his horse into a gallop. Lydia jumped to her feet. “Ride, Johnny!”

  Her heart clenched when the lance fell short of snatching the first ring. She grimaced when the lance missed the second ring and knocked the third to the ground. Johnny dismounted, picked up the fallen ring, mounted, and slipped it back into place before loping back toward them. “I’m going to try again,” he said.

  It took him three tries to get a ring on his lance. He returned with his face beaming, and Abbie felt her heart swell.

  “Well done, lad,” Grayson said. “A little more practice and you’ll be getting them all.”

  “Don’t you think I should have armor for the tournament?” Johnny asked.

  “It’d be too cumbersome,” Grayson said. “Perhaps your mother could sew you a surcoat.”

  Johnny wrinkled his brow. “What’s a surcoat?”

  “It’s clothing that’s open on the sides and slips over your head. You’ll have to design a coat of arms.”

  “We can do that tonight after supper.” Johnny snapped his head around. “Can you make me one, Ma?”

  “I’ll make one for everyone.” She looked at Micah. He sat on the porch steps, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palms, looking like a dog someone had just kicked. “Would you like to have a surcoat, Micah?”

  He pushed out his lower lip and shook his head.

  “Are you ready to take a run at the ring
s?” Grayson asked.

  Micah jerked back his head. “I ain’t big enough.”

  “You’re big enough to help me.” He reached toward Micah. “Come on, lad.”

  Micah jumped up and grabbed Grayson’s hand. Grayson hoisted him onto the saddle. He took the lance from Johnny and handed him the ring. “Put this back.”

  While Johnny did as instructed, Grayson spoke quietly to Micah. She watched her son’s eyes widen and sparkle like a new star in the sky. His tiny fingers closed around the lance that Grayson securely held.

  “Ready! Go!” Micah yelled, and he and Grayson loped along the road.

  Abbie urged them on when they snagged the first ring. Clapped when they snagged the second. Jumped up and down with delight when they snagged the third. She didn’t imagine any knight could have looked more victorious than Micah did at that moment as Grayson brought the horse to a halt near the porch and lowered Micah to the ground.

  “I gotta kiss the queen of the tournament!” Micah cried as he threw his arms around Abbie’s legs. She lifted him up and he planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek.

  Abbie looked past Micah to Grayson. The warmth in his gaze was as powerful as a touch, as devastating as a kiss.

  Abbie knelt at the edge of the field and gently cradled the open pod in her hand. She could see a scattering of white laced through the fields. She heard the soft footfalls, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Grayson crouch beside her.

  “So that’s cotton,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “When the boll bursts open, it reveals five locks of cotton.” She curled her free hand and touched each finger to a lock.

  “Uncanny.”

  “Nature’s perfection makes it possible to slip your fingers between the cotton and the tines and pluck out the cotton in one sweep.” She demonstrated, taking pride in the swiftness of the motion and the fact that she came away unscathed. She twisted slightly and offered the cotton to Grayson, only to discover he wasn’t looking at the cotton at all, but was watching her with an intensity that set her heart to pounding.

  “We’ll start picking soon, working from can-see to can’t.”

  “Then we should probably have our picnic in the next day or so,” he said.

  “I reckon day after tomorrow would be best. That’ll give me time to make us a proper picnic.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “And what, pray tell, is a proper picnic?”

  “I’ve got a surprise or two planned. Reckon you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Reckon I will at that.”

  She released a small giggle and slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “What’s the matter, ma’am?”

  She dropped her hand and jerked up her chin. “You’re making fun of the way we talk.”

  His smile withered. “No, Abbie. Only wishing I wasn’t quite so foreign to you.” He cradled her cheek and slowly leaned toward her.

  Her heart pounded so hard that she was certain he could feel it vibrating through her flesh, traveling to the tips of her fingers. The blue of his eyes darkened, reminding her of a sky before a thunderstorm. His lips touched hers, and she thought of the time she’d seen lightning strike the ground.

  His free arm wound around her waist and drew her hard against him, so that they were kneeling in the dark soil, the good earth. He drew away and rubbed his thumb over her swollen lips, still throbbing from the persuasiveness of his kiss.

  It seemed the most appropriate place in the world for love to take root.

  Abbie stood at the side of the house, peering around the corner, watching Grayson shave. His burned shoulders had healed, leaving a few scattered freckles in their wake. He seemed a little broader, his muscles more toned—from working the fields and chopping wood for her, she supposed.

  He angled his chin up and scraped the blade along his throat, the scraping sound echoing in the silence.

  “You can come out of hiding, Abbie,” he said, not removing his gaze from the small mirror.

  Feeling like a child caught snitching a cookie from the jar, she jumped, clutching her offering more closely against her breast. “I didn’t want to startle you and cause you to cut yourself.”

  Grinning, he swiveled his head slightly. “And here I thought perhaps you just enjoyed the view.”

  She felt the heat scald her face. “Your thoughts are terribly wicked.”

  His grin grew. “Terribly.”

  She angled her head slightly, studying him. “Your back seems darker than I remember. Have you been going without a shirt?”

  “A few minutes each day. I have no desire to let the sun catch me unawares again.”

  But he had certainly caught her unawares. She found the bronzed tone of his skin incredibly…attractive, which was the last thing she wanted him to realize.

  “The children are so excited about the picnic.”

  His smile warmed. “I’m glad.”

  “I finished their surcoats last night.”

  “Wonderful. Now they can pretend they are real knights.”

  “Did you pretend you were a knight when you were a boy?”

  “I pretended—but not that I was a knight.”

  “What was it that you wanted to be?”

  “Loved.”

  Her heart felt as though someone had just clamped a hand around it. He turned back to the mirror and began scraping away the remainder of his whiskers.

  “Forget I said that,” he said quietly, his gaze latched on his reflection.

  But how could she not remember when his eyes had told her the answer long before he spoke the word. “I’m sure your father loves you.”

  His hand stilled, the razor resting just beneath his chin. “Yes, I suppose he does. In his way. He gave me a generous allowance, an exceptional education—” He slid his gaze toward her. “And a journey into hell.”

  “The hottest fires forge the strongest metals.”

  He raised a brow. “Is that so?”

  She thought it was, but wasn’t completely certain so she simply angled her chin defiantly. “Whenever a blacksmith needs to reshape iron, he thrusts it into the hottest fires.”

  “My father is not a blacksmith.”

  “But you needed reshaping.”

  The laughter rumbled from deep within him, and Abbie wanted to sing out.

  “Yes, I suppose I did need a bit of reshaping.”

  “And you’ll have some reminders of England today.”

  With a towel, he wiped the remaining lather from his face. “That’s true.”

  She took a step closer. “I…I made this for you.”

  He turned his head slightly and looked at her as though she’d spoken in Spanish. He set the towel aside. His footsteps echoed across the porch nearly as loudly as her heart. He took her gift and shook it out, twisting it, turning it, studying it from all angles.

  The early morning sunlight seemed to emphasize every flawed and faulty stitch. “It’s a shirt,” she said, wishing now that she hadn’t sewn it. Compared with the linen shirt he’d been wearing the day he’d arrived, it looked as though it were better suited to holding potatoes. “Something to wear in the fields—”

  His gaze shifted and captured hers. “I wouldn’t dream of wearing it in the fields.” He leaned toward her, and she would have sworn he was going to kiss her, but instead, he simply touched a finger to her cheek. “No one has ever made a gift for me before. I shall take great pleasure in wearing this today. Thank you.”

  Backing up a step, she wiped her sweating palms on her apron. “I’d best put the finishing touches on the food.”

  “I’ll get the wagon.”

  She watched him watching her, and suddenly couldn’t remember what it was she was supposed to do. He stepped off the porch, and she wondered if she’d ever noticed how long his legs were. He needed only two strides to reach her, only one movement to cradle her cheek, and one swoop to press his lips to hers. She leaned into him as though she were a willow bending with the wind.
His lips trailed along her cheek and came to rest beside her ear. “Make no mistake, Abbie. Today you are my lady.”

  She drew away, heat flaming her face. “I don’t know how to play the flirtatious games—”

  “No games. Just try to enjoy my company today as much as I enjoy yours.”

  She nodded and scurried away with the shameful thought that she was the mother of three and had never given her heart away—but at least now she knew why. It hurt to do so.

  10

  G rayson drew the lumbering wagon to a halt. He would have gladly sold his soul for a carriage—and a decent road—that he might have used to escort Abbie to the day’s festivities in a manner she deserved instead of the manner to which she was accustomed.

  Wearing the shirt she’d sewn for him, he wished he had something of equal value that he could have bestowed upon her. She wore the bonnet that normally graced her head as she worked the fields—not a plume, a colored ribbon, or a bow to be seen except for the one tucked beneath her chin to keep the plain thing in place. Abbie’s dress had faded to leave nothing but a shadowy reminder of the colors it might have once possessed. Yet he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  Lydia proudly wore a new dress. Following alongside the wagon, Johnny sat astride the horse he would ride in the tournament. Micah was perched behind his brother, his arms wrapped tightly around Johnny ’s waist. The boys wore shirts that resembled Grayson’s.

  Grayson climbed from the wagon and reached for Abbie. She blushed becomingly before placing her hands on his shoulders. His hands spanned her waist, his thumbs touching, and he wondered how the mother of three could be so tiny. His gaze delving into the violet of her eyes, he slowly brought her to the ground. Christ , but he wanted to kiss her.

  “I dislike that bonnet.”

  Her hand flew to the brim that reminded him of a duck’s beak. “It keeps the sun from turning my face into leather.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “How much harm could one day without it cause?” Without waiting for her answer, he grabbed the end of the faded ribbon and tugged the bow loose of its moorings. Her blush deepened but she did nothing to stop him. He slipped a finger between the ribbon and her throat and felt the rapid beat of her pulse. He was tempted to press his lips against her fluttering flesh. He loosened the ribbon and tugged the bonnet from her head.