Texas Gold (Mills & Boon Historical)

by Carolyn Davidson

  Max grinned, nodding. “You might say that. And we won, too.”

  “We?” Nicholas turned back to Faith, his eyes registering his confusion. One finger tipped back his hat and Faith took pity on him.

  “You have a filly, Nicholas. We’ve been busy delivering the prettiest little golden foal you’ve ever seen.”

  “We?” Nicholas repeated the word again, his attention veering from Faith to the man who had stepped around him to hand her a bucket of water.

  “It’s not hot, but warm enough, I think,” he said. “I’ll go in and get you some clothes out of the wicker basket. All right?”

  She nodded and placed the bucket on a stump just outside the barn door and then lifted her skirt a bit to rub at her arms, removing the layer of lard covering her skin.

  Nicholas folded his arms over his chest and eyed her grimly. “When do I get to hear this story?” he asked, and then his expression lightened a bit. “And just when do I get to see my filly?”

  Faith grinned up at him, then peered into the bucket, then fished out a small bar of soap. “Go on in if you like,” she said, “but you might want to know that Max is the hero of the day. He pulled your filly after I had to admit defeat. My arm wasn’t long enough to do the job.”

  “The mare had problems?” Nicholas asked, watching as Faith soaped her hands and arms generously. She lifted suds to her face and scrubbed, then rinsed in the bucket. Another sudsing followed and finally she looked up, blinking water droplets from her eyelashes.

  “I’ll say. One foot was presenting and Max was able to return it, then grasp both hooves and deliver the filly.”

  “First time I’ve ever played the midwife,” Max said cheerfully from behind Nicholas, and once more the neighbor was forced to turn to acknowledge the man.

  “You have my thanks,” he said, albeit a bit grudgingly. “Something told me to ride over here this morning. Guess my instincts were on target.”

  “Go on in and meet your girl,” Faith said, inspecting her arms and frowning. And then she looked up at Max and grinned. “I may never get all this lard off, you know.”

  “Give it one more scrub,” he recommended easily. “I brought out more warm water for you.” A wrinkled dress was tossed over his shoulder and she nodded her thanks.

  The bar of soap was pressed into use once more, and she managed to produce a thick layer of suds that gave promise of removing the rest of the lard. “Here, I’ll rinse for you,” Max offered, pouring the clean water over her outstretched hands and arms. It splashed on her dress, and his gaze narrowed as the outline of her body beneath became apparent.

  Nicholas opened the barn door after one short glance in her direction, and Faith subdued a grin. Her neighbor was a gentleman to the core. Given the fact that her state of grubbiness was fast giving way to the danger of her more feminine parts being on display, he was wisely disappearing within the shadows of the barn.

  Max seemed to have no problem with the clinging dress she wore, surveying her openly. “When Nicholas comes out, you can change your dress in one of the stalls,” he suggested. “That old one isn’t worth washing. I’ll toss it on the burn pile.”

  She looked down at herself and grimaced. “You’re right.” And then looked up as Nicholas reappeared from the barn. “What do you think?”

  He looked directly at Max and held out his hand, not seeming to be concerned by the collection of stains that wide palm had gathered throughout the early morning hours. “I owe you, McDowell. She’s a beauty.”

  Faith slipped behind him into the barn, carrying the dress Max had snatched from her wash basket. It was a simple matter to strip off her soiled garment and slip into the wrinkled dress that had been awaiting the ironing board. She was far from clean, but at least decent enough to go in the house and cook breakfast while Max tended to his own washing up.

  “See if there’s enough warm water left in the reservoir, would you?” he asked as she dumped the dirty water with a splash to one side of the barn. “I’ll wait on the porch.”

  “All right,” she agreed, then headed for the house, calling over her shoulder as an afterthought. “Would you like to join us for breakfast, Nicholas?”

  “Nicholas said he needed to head for home,” Max said, finally rid of the layers of lard and the messy residue of the filly’s delivery. He stood at the back door, shirtless and obviously unwilling to enter the kitchen.

  “Could you find me a pair of trousers, Faith?” he asked. “I don’t want to sit on the chair like this.”

  She nodded and set aside the skillet she held. “The eggs are about ready. I’ll pull the bread from the oven and be right with you.” A folded dish towel in her hand, she nudged the sliced bread from the oven rack onto a plate and set it in the warming oven, then turned to the hallway and hurried to the room where Max spent his nights.

  His clothing was neatly arrayed in the dresser drawer, and she chose a pair of trousers and a clean shirt for his use, then carried them back to where he waited. “I’ll turn around if you want to change here,” she offered.

  Busying herself at the stove, she heard the rustle of his clothing, then the distinct clunk of boots being dropped out the door onto the back porch. Giving him a few more moments of privacy, she filled two plates with the eggs, added two pieces of toasted bread to each and lifted bacon from the second skillet on the back of the stove.

  “Ready for this?” she asked, her gaze averted as she turned to the table.

  “Well, I may not be clean clear through, but I’m a sight better looking than I was fifteen minutes ago,” Max said, sliding into his chair and reaching for the plate she held.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” she offered, reaching for cups from the kitchen cabinet, and she felt his gaze touch her as she lowered her arms, a cup in each hand. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed assessingly, and she felt a distinct measure of discomfort. “You’re watching me,” she said.

  “I watch you frequently,” he answered, lifting his fork with a casual gesture. “You’re well worth my attention, Faith.” He accepted the cup of coffee she brought him and sipped at it briefly before placing it by his plate. “I’m constantly amazed at your beauty.” And then he shook his head.

  “No, beauty isn’t the right word.” His gaze touched her again and she was warmed by the admiration in his eyes. “I don’t know the words to describe what I see when I look at you. You’re lovelier than any other female I’ve ever known.”

  She laughed and took a bite of her scrambled eggs. “Well,” she said after chewing slowly, “that’s either a compliment designed to get on my good side, or you’re going blind.”

  “Neither.” His movements matched hers as he quietly and steadily ate the pile of eggs she’d cooked for him. “You’re right, though, in one sense. A compliment is usually issued for the purpose of flattery, but I’m aware you don’t have the need for that. It was the truth, and my vision is top-notch, sweetheart.”

  He looked up, catching her gaze, and his own radiated a sincerity she could not doubt. “Even in that wrinkled dress, and with shadows under your eyes from lack of sleep, you radiate an inner beauty that leaves me stunned sometimes.”

  She shot him a quick look and tilted her head, as if assessing his words. “You’ve never looked stunned, so far as I can remember.”

  “Believe it or not, sweetheart, you take my breath away sometimes.” He tore his toast in half and glanced toward the cabinet, a smile touching his lips as he changed the subject. “Is the jam over there or in the pantry?”

  “The pantry,” she said, and began to rise from her chair. His outstretched hand halted her and he was on his feet.

  “I’ll get it.”

  She felt his gaze on her as he walked behind her chair, knew the moment he returned. And then his hand touched her shoulder and he leaned past her to place the jam jar on the table before her. His scent was in her nostrils, the smell of soap and just a hint of hay and straw, and the muted aroma of male flesh.
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  Her breath caught in her throat and she grew still beneath his touch. He bent, and his mouth pressed against her temple, then slid to her cheek, his lips warm and damp, yet at the same time cool against her skin. And how that could be was a question she was not up to solving.

  “This is the truth, Faith. You stun me sometimes, just looking at you, watching your eyes shine, your hair gleam in the sunlight.” He sighed and chuckled softly. “But that wasn’t what I meant to say just now. I’d thought to thank you,” he said, his words a quiet murmur.

  “For what?” she asked, unable to move, lest he step away and leave her wanting more.

  “For allowing me to be with you in the barn, for sharing the birth of your foal with me. For giving me the credit in front of Nicholas. You didn’t have to do that, and it offered me a little more stature in his eyes, something I need right now.”

  She turned her head and his mouth touched hers, a soft kiss without passion, a brush of lips that spoke only of this moment between them, asking nothing more than her compliance. “You saved the filly’s life and possibly—no, probably—that of my mare,” she said as he lifted his hand from her shoulder and paced around the table to sit again across from her. “I owe you, Max.”

  “No.” He lifted his fork and shook his head.

  It was a simple refusal of her debt to him, and she considered him for a moment, pulling her toast into small bits. “You won’t accept my thanks?”

  “I accept your thanks, but not your obligation to me. You owe me nothing, Faith. What you give me has to be of your free will and because you find in me something worth your affection and friendship.”

  “Affection and friendship.” She repeated the two words and considered them. “I didn’t know you wanted my friendship,” she said finally.

  “More than you know.” He ate the final bits of eggs and spread jam with a lavish hand on his remaining piece of toast. “I feel like I’ve started over in my courtship of you during the past days. And the one part I left out of our original relationship was that of being your friend.”

  “I never felt smart enough or experienced enough to meet you at that level,” she said. “You were an intelligent man of business, with people surrounding you who flocked to your side and listened to every word you spoke.”

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable with that analysis, and shook his head.

  “It’s true, Max. I looked on like an orphan at a family picnic sometimes. I couldn’t begin to know what you spoke about, and I was too awed to ask the questions I should have in order to learn.” Her shrug expressed the sadness she felt as she recalled those moments in the past.

  “And then when we were together, you were more interested in my…” Unable to speak the words, she chose rather to shrug again.

  “Your body? Making love to you?” His eyes were filled with another message, as if he, too, recalled those moments. “I always wanted you, Faith, but it was sometimes almost a desperate need for you after one of our evenings in company. You were so lovely, looking almost untouched, and the men watched you with looks that made me jealous. Yet at the same time, I knew I was going to take you to bed, and I felt the luckiest of all the males that surrounded me.”

  “The men watched me?” She felt sudden surprise at the thought. “I was probably the least experienced, least appealing woman of our social circle,” she said flatly. “I doubt I inspired much lust in anyone.” Her glance touched him then and she smiled faintly. “Except you, perhaps.”

  “Your youth and naive behavior made you attractive to those men who had seen and tasted women with experience, women who knew the rules in society and flitted from one man to another.”

  “Most of them were married,” she said. “How…”

  He smiled, but it was a poignant one, and failed to reach his expressive eyes. “Marriage is a commodity in society, Faith. Men marry for reasons other than love, as do women.”

  She stood and reached for his plate, then turned to the sink and the dishpan that held a residue of water. The plates were rinsed quickly and the water sloshed into the sink, which drained out the side of the house into the soil. And then she turned back to him, her hands clutching the sink on either side of her.

  “Why did you marry me, Max?” Suddenly the reason was important, and she waited, holding her breath as he considered her query.

  “If you’re asking me whether or not I loved you, I have to plead no contest, Faith. I wanted you badly. I knew the only way I’d get you in my bed was by way of a wedding ring, and so I asked you to marry me. I was too selfish to think about love.” His jaw firmed as he leaned back in his chair.

  “I never even considered whether or not you loved me,” he continued. “And that was my first mistake. Looking back, I should have known you couldn’t have given yourself to me so generously had you not felt a deep emotion for me.”

  “I loved you,” she admitted. “I’ve already told you that.”

  “And now?” he asked, his mouth flattening into a thin line as if he awaited news that would not be pleasing.

  She shrugged and turned away. “Now I don’t know how I feel about you. I like you better than I did three years ago, but that’s not too difficult to admit. I didn’t like you at all the night I left.”

  The teakettle was full of hot water at the back of the stove and she lifted it with both hands, protected by a dish towel, lest she be burned by the metal handle. The steaming water poured over the dishes she’d placed in the dishpan, and the dollop of soap she’d added bubbled up into suds. With deft movements, she returned the teakettle to the stove, and then pumped twice to release a flow of cold water into the pan.

  Max sat at the table, his countenance dark, as if he were digesting her words. And she felt a nudge of guilt as she considered her statement. It was not complete, and fairness decreed she must speak the truth with this man.

  “You’re a different man these days than you were then, Max,” she conceded. “I like you better because you’re more willing to talk to me, because you treat me almost as an equal. And that’s something you never did during our marriage.”

  “Almost?” He snagged onto the one word she’d used to qualify her statement. “I didn’t generally treat you as my equal?”

  “I wasn’t your equal,” she stated smoothly. “You were smarter, more suave and sophisticated, more knowledgeable than I about almost everything in our lives. I was a dummy. I did what you told me, tried to get along with your mother and rarely succeeded at either task.”

  His eyes darkened as he spoke, his words harsh. “My mother. I think we might as well get her out of the way, Faith. If what you say about her is the truth, as you perceive it, then she was a real problem in our marriage.”

  “It isn’t as I perceive it, Max. The day you come to realize that your mother felt I was unworthy of you and your attentions is the day we may be able to come to an understanding.” She scrubbed at a plate that was already clean, and set it aside for rinsing. Her heart was thumping unmercifully in her chest as she remembered the days of submission to the woman who had found it necessary, on a daily basis, to put her son’s wife on probation.

  “Can we talk about something else?” Faith finally asked, setting aside the second plate and picking up the silverware.

  Max was beside her, teakettle in hand, pouring the water with care over the plates, rinsing off the residue of suds. He returned the kettle to the stove and picked up the dishes and dried them, a meticulous performance that caught her attention.

  “You don’t need to help me with these,” she said.

  “Yes, I think I do,” he answered, taking the pieces of silverware from her and rinsing them as he had the plates. They were dried and replaced in the drawer where she kept them, and then he waited while she cleaned and wiped out the skillets. Soap did not touch the cast-iron surfaces, and when she was finished, she placed them upside down on the stove to dry.

  “You can hang the towel on the line,” she said, turning to wash th
e oilcloth on the table. Then she watched as he walked out onto the porch, her gaze caught by the long line of his back, the muscles that flexed as he lifted his arms to pin the dish towel to the rope stretched between two posts.

  His hips were lean, his legs muscular. Even with the fabric covering his body, she remembered only too well the masculine form of the man beneath his clothing. His hair hung a bit long over his collar, and she thought of the nights she had threaded her fingers through those dark locks, remembered the thrilling touch of his long fingers that had brought pleasure to her with unstinting generosity.

  He turned from the rope line and opened the screened door, crossing the threshold and blinking in the relatively dim light of the kitchen. “Anything else I need to do?” he asked. “If not, I’ll check on the other horses and give the mare some hay and a bit of feed from the barrel. Do we need to pen up the filly?”

  Faith walked toward him and lifted her hands to his shoulders, and he became as a statue before her, his eyes narrowing as he bent his head to look deeply into her gaze.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to touch you. May I?”

  His nod was slow, his breath hitching as if he found it difficult to inhale properly. “Feel free to put your hands on me anytime you like,” he said roughly, and then waited, watching her as if his very breath depended on her next move.

  She touched his hair, ruffling it a bit and smiling. “I need to trim this a little,” she murmured, her fingers easing through the dark strands and clasping his head. She lifted herself on tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his, a brief touch of lips that spread warmth throughout her body.

  “I was remembering,” she said, as if an explanation was due. And perhaps it was. Fairness decreed that she not take advantage of his good nature, and yet she was enjoying these brief moments of control, as his hands clenched at his sides and he stood before her, a ruddy line across his cheekbones revealing the effect she had on him.