Rogues in Texas 03 - Never Marry a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  She heard nothing but the breeze whispering loudly over the ocean waves. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the tears to roll down her cheeks. “Promise me, Christian.”

  “A promise tossed onto the wind is forgotten the moment that the wind ceases to blow.” He released his hold on the reins and brought both arms around her. The horse snorted and sidestepped. She felt Kit’s thighs tighten as he controlled the animal with only his legs.

  “The sunrise is especially beautiful this morning,” he said in a low voice.

  Her heart constricted and a lump rose in her throat. Unable to speak, she opened her eyes to welcome the dawning of a new day. But deep within her heart, she felt as though a tiny part of her had already died, knowing the life he had carved for himself.

  She felt his breath skim against her ear.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Ashton. Time spent with you has been a gift I did not deserve.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Then don’t die.”

  Her heart constricted with his command.

  “You say that as though I have a choice.”

  “I do sometimes wonder if you’ve accepted your fate with too much grace, and with acceptance comes fulfillment.”

  “It’s easy enough to spout philosophy when you are not facing death.”

  He chuckled low, cynically. “I can spout philosophy because I have been death.”

  She twisted around. “What does that mean?”

  Averting his gaze, he reached for the reins. “Let’s go into town today and purchase some trinkets that you can hold as memories.”

  He turned the horse about. Anger burst through her. “You’ll give me no promises or explanations.”

  He met her gaze. “I promise you this: I shall give to you no less than I gave Clarisse. A marble statue of an angel to watch over you in your eternal sleep and fresh flowers on your grave every day.”

  She grabbed his forearm, digging her fingers into him, stilling him. “Why would I want a promise that consisted of cold marble and flowers that wilt? What purpose could either possibly serve?”

  She saw the confusion and fury swirl within his eyes at her questioning his promise.

  “They show that you are loved and remembered.”

  “They honor my death and not my life.” Recognizing within the depths of his eyes that she’d truly hurt him, she laid her palm against his cheek. It was not his vow to her that was causing his pain, but his gifts to the woman he’d loved before her, gifts he’d thought worthy of her. “I don’t doubt the sincerity of your gifts or that Clarisse was worthy of your devotion.” She smiled warmly. “Fresh flowers every day and an angel to guard over her. Any other woman would be honored to be remembered in such a manner. But I have grown up and lived within Death’s shadow. If you wish to honor me, whatever money you would spend on flowers or statues give to a physician who seeks a cure for any disease that causes suffering or death. I won’t feel neglected if weeds cover my grave.”

  “You deserve more than weeds, and I won’t allow you to settle for less than you deserve.”

  She touched her lips to his. “One flower then. A white rose like the one you gave me the afternoon when we had our first outing. But no more than that. Did you know that in this city known for its oleanders and grandness that half the deaths recorded each year are those of children? Find a more worthwhile cause than decorating my grave.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and she worried that he wouldn’t capitulate. Finally, he sighed deeply. “One rose every day and a small statuette.”

  “A tiny statuette.”

  He cupped her head and brought it into the nook of his shoulder. She heard him swallow hard.

  “If that’s what you prefer, sweetling, then that is what you shall have.”

  “I’m not faulting you for sending Clarisse flowers. I simply don’t want any.”

  “You like sunsets,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “But I prefer sunrises. We take for granted the luxury of time, living our lives as though tomorrow were a guarantee instead of a gift.”

  *

  Standing at the water’s edge, Kit watched sandpipers dart and race along the shoreline. Overhead the seagulls vied for his attention, but his mind drifted to thoughts of his wife.

  They’d decided to delay their trip to the heart of Galveston until later in the day, after she’d taken her nap. They were going to have dinner at a restaurant.

  He’d gone into town earlier and rented a buggy. He’d visited St. Mary’s infirmary and spoken at length with a physician. Long walks, a good diet, and dry air were his offerings as a cure for consumption. Sometimes consumptive patients recovered—even those who coughed up blood on occasion—and he had no idea why.

  The physician had given him a spark of hope, but Kit would have preferred an absolute cure. Perhaps a cure would exist if he’d given the hospital the money he’d earned that first summer picking cotton instead of sending it to his solicitor in England so he could ensure Clarisse always had fresh flowers on her grave. She had so loved flowers. He’d wanted to give her in death what he’d been unable to give her openly in life.

  With a portion of the money from his first cattle venture, he’d had a statue sculpted for Clarisse. Christopher had written him that it had turned out handsomely.

  Kit crouched and bowed his head, his chest tightening. He dug his elbows into his thighs and clasped his hands, an aching grasp that was doing little to stop the pain. He had not wept when Clarisse had died. At her funeral, he had remained stoic and strong, his feelings known only to himself and his brother.

  Every wilted petal represented a tear he had not been allowed to shed in public and been unable to release in private.

  He saw a drop of water hit the ground between his feet. The sand greedily absorbed it. And then another drop. Five years of holding grief at bay, and just when he thought Clarisse no longer mattered, he was discovering quite the opposite.

  He felt slender arms slip around him, a body nestle against his back as a woman placed her head against his shoulder. She held him so he couldn’t wipe the disgrace of tears from his eyes.

  “I thought you were taking a nap,” he said brusquely.

  “I thought you said the advantage to marriage was that it gave us someone to lean on.”

  Damn the woman for tossing his words at him. “If I lean against you, we’d both tumble over.”

  Her arms tightened around him. “I’m sturdier than you think, Christian Montgomery.”

  He shook his head, unable to stop the tears now that he’d given a few their freedom. “I didn’t want Clarisse to be dead. That’s why I send her flowers every day. Although if she’s looking down from heaven, she probably thinks they’re coming from Christopher. All the little surprises I left for her, she thought came from Christopher.” He released a shuddering sigh. “Remember when I told you how connected Christopher and I were?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if it was his love for Clarisse that I felt and not my own.” Damn his chest for aching as though it was caving in on him and the tears that flowed more freely.

  She sidled around him, met his gaze, and tenderly gathered his tears with her fingers. “You loved her. I saw it in your eyes the first night I heard you speak of her at David’s. And I see it now.”

  He bowed his head. “You should return to the house.”

  She threaded her fingers through his hair and pressed her bosom against his face. “So you can wallow in grief alone.”

  “I prefer it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have married me.” She kissed the top of his head, his forehead before leaning low to kiss the tears that dampened his cheeks. “I love you.”

  His spirits soared with such joy before they plummeted with unequalled despair. “I don’t deserve your love.”

  She gave him an innocent smile and cradled his face between her hands. “You judge yourself too harshly. How can you do
ubt your feelings for Clarisse were real? They are the reason you have flowers laid on her place of rest every day and gave her a stone angel to watch over her.” She touched her lips to his. He opened his eyes. “She had an angel in life, Christian. Just as I do.”

  “I am no angel!” He surged to his feet and stalked to the water’s edge. He felt her presence more than he heard her approach.

  “Didn’t you marry me to ease my dying, give me memories, and lessen my regrets?”

  He released a strangled laugh. “I don’t know anymore, Ashton. My misguided reasons have turned against me because the one thing I do not doubt is what I feel for you.” He turned to face her. “I love you.”

  He circled one arm around her, bringing her closer. He touched his knuckles to her cheek. “I don’t want to see you suffer.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’ll be back in Dallas long before I reach that stage, and you’ll be in Fortune doing your best to stop men from murdering floors.”

  The ache in his chest was almost unbearable. Love was hell. Why in God’s name couldn’t he ever love a woman who would live long enough for her hair to turn silver?

  *

  CHAPTER 15

  « ^ »

  C lutching Kit’s arm, Ashton strolled along the shell-paved path known as The Strand. As twilight eased in, the gaslights that lined the streets of Galveston were already casting their faint glow to ward off the approaching darkness. Sighing contentedly, Ashton refrained from pressing her hand to her full stomach. She couldn’t recall ever having eaten so much. It seemed with each meal that she ate more than she ever had before.

  “I cannot believe the grandeur of this city,” she said quietly. The ornate buildings and the three-story homes with turrets, spires, and columns fascinated her. “Next to Galveston , Dallas seems like an unwanted stepchild.”

  Kit smile warmly. “Don’t underestimate Dallas . It has an aura about it, and I have no doubt that it will someday take its place among the notable cities of this state.” He placed his free hand over hers and squeezed slightly. “But you are perceptive. Galveston is special. In some ways, it reminds me of London .” His smile deepened. “I should take you on a walk along The Strand there.”

  “I’d like to see London .”

  He shook his head. “I spoke out of turn. It’s a long journey, and I fear the weather would not be agreeable to you. You shiver in the night here. It is much cooler there.”

  “Then I’ll be content with Galveston . Thank you for bringing me. I would have never imagined a city such as this or that oceans never ceased to move.”

  He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers, sending warmth cascading through her. His gaze held hers. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  She felt the heat brighten her cheeks as she remembered the physical pleasure he’d brought to her the night before. The pleasure had been all hers.

  She looked away, trying to concentrate on the intriguing architecture, lingering oleander fragrance, and bustle of people surrounding her. Instead, her mind wandered and she wondered if Kit would gift her tonight with another journey into the realm of incredible sensations.

  Distracted, she released a small gasp as she stumbled over a shell. Kit caught her, drawing her close. She caught a whiff of the bay rum he wore, mingled with a scent that captured the essence of his masculinity. She loved his scent, the impeccable manner in which he dressed, and the mien of nobility that was such a part of him.

  He was not a Texan. He never would be. She thought it a shame that he didn’t return to the home that he loved and missed.

  “Are you growing tired?” he asked, concern clearly reflected in his voice. “We could take a mule-drawn street car back to the spot where I left the carriage, if you’d like.”

  “I want to walk. I don’t think I’ve ever walked as much in my entire life as I have since we arrived here.”

  “I’m afraid I may have forced my passion for walking on you. As a lad, I enjoyed walking great distances just to prove I could do it.”

  She studied him, trying to make sense of his words. “Why would you need to prove anything?”

  He cocked his head and leaned near as though to impart a secret. “When I was a boy, I was quite sickly.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re teasing me.”

  He gave her a grim smile. “I wish. I spent much of my time abed with a cough or a fever or simply not feeling quite right. I always seemed tired, and I could see in my father’s eyes that he detested my weakness. I’m certain he thanked God every night that I was the second son born and not the first.”

  “But you look perfectly healthy now.”

  He shrugged. “I forced myself to get out of bed, to walk when my legs trembled, and to eat when I had no appetite. My mother coddled me, my father loathed me, and Christopher promised that if I became strong enough, we would fool everyone and switch places.”

  “And did you?”

  “Only once,” he murmured quietly, and she knew without asking that it was the night Clarisse had died.

  “You see,” he continued, “in my desire to become stronger, I also became obstinate and contrary. While Christopher remained the perfect gentleman, I became a rapscallion. As I grew stronger. I took pleasure in embarrassing my father. I imagine over time, he came to wish that I had remained weak and died.”

  “No father would wish that.”

  “Perhaps not. He had Christopher, the perfect son, and me, whom he constantly sent hither and yon, out of sight and out of mind. I enjoyed earning his wrath. It was much easier to accept than his pity.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You constantly shove food into my mouth.”

  He nodded brusquely. “Because you do not place it between your lips yourself.”

  “Each day our morning and evening walks grow longer.”

  “I saw no harm in it, and I keep a close watch to ensure you don’t wear yourself out.”

  “You manipulated me,” she accused.

  “With the best of intentions, I promise you. I discovered I have no desire to become a widower.”

  She pressed her head against his arm, needing more contact with him. “I don’t want to make you a widower, but I fear I have no choice. Last January, the doctor was certain that I would not survive another winter. Yet I feel less tired than I’ve ever felt. Maybe it’s the salt air and the excitement of seeing everything. I don’t want to miss a single sight. What if everything changes when we leave?”

  “Then we’ll come back.” He began walking, and she was conscious of the fact that he took smaller steps when he was with her. She’d watched him walk along the shore when she wasn’t beside him, his strides long and purposeful.

  “This city actually has culture that you can’t find elsewhere in the state,” Kit told her. “There are theaters and an opera house. Would you like to see a performance while we’re here?”

  She squeezed his arm. “I’d love to. I’ve never been to a theater.”

  “I’ll make arrangements tomorrow.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen many plays and operas,” she said.

  “In London , yes. I miss the finer aspects of British life, which is one of the reasons Galveston appeals to me. The people here are more educated and wealthier than most in the state. Regrettably, though, I think all cities must have a balance. You’ll also find the poorest and filthiest of wretches here.”

  “Have you seen much of the state?” she asked.

  “I traveled its length and width shortly after we finished our trail drive. The state is so diverse that it fascinates me.”

  “But you prefer England .”

  He furrowed his brow. “I don’t know that I prefer England . I only know that I miss Ravenleigh.”

  She heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Then you should return to your home.”

  He laughed. “I’ve told you before that I have nothing awaiting me there.”

  “Is your home there similar to any of these?” she ask
ed, grandly sweeping her arm around to encompass the Georgian-and Victorian-styled homes.

  “I could not even begin to describe the manor house. It is three, nay, five times the size of the largest home you would find here. Too many servants to count scurry about dusting and polishing all the furnishings and decorative pieces that have been in our family for generations. It’s rather like living in a museum.”

  “I don’t understand its appeal then. It sounds cold and uncaring.”

  “I can’t explain it, but it’s in my blood, I suppose.”

  She stopped abruptly, and he turned to look at her. “While we’re here, you should talk with one of the architects or builders and have something similar built for you in Fortune,” she suggested.

  “So I could hear my footsteps echo along the empty hallways for the remainder of my life? No, thank you.”

  He began to walk away. She grabbed his arm and spun him around. He raised a brow. Although they’d spoken as though she would not die, she knew it was a false hope and reality would one day intrude, bringing death with it.

  “You’re a young man. You’ll find someone else to marry.”

  “I’m not going to search, sweetling.”

  The obstinate man! She wanted to bop him with the broom only she’d snipped off all the straw while catching the escaped crabs. “Then you’ll stumble into her.”

  “No.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Christian Montgomery, if you don’t find someone else, marry, and raise a family, I swear I shall haunt you from the grave.”

  Sadness touched his eyes. “I fear, Ashton, that inevitability shall come about regardless of what I do with the remainder of my life.”

  *

  Lying in bed, with the lamp turned down until its light was almost useless, Ashton watched her husband prowl through their bedroom, slowly removing his clothes. She’d never in her life been so nervous, wondering if he would remove everything, if she should remove her gown.

  One night of intimacy left her longing for more. She considered suggesting a late-night swim, but she feared he’d say no, although he had yet to deny her anything she asked. No moon outlined his form, yet her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see his silhouette.