“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
Bloody 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.
He heard no nightingales, no birds at all, but a barrage of insects, creating a low humming cadence. Nearing the edge of the field, he saw a shadow emerge from the rows of cotton. He came to an abrupt halt and held his breath, waiting. He felt Abbie’s gaze touch him and cursed the moon that wasn’t strong enough to clearly light her face.
“Thought you promised not to leave the barn at night,” she said, her voice low.
He took a hesitant step toward her. “I also confessed to being disreputable.”
He could make out the faintest hint of a smile in the moonlight.
“If you were truly disreputable, you’d be at the back of the house trying to see me bathing.”
“Perhaps I already checked the back of the house—”
“I saw you walk out of the barn. You headed straight for the fields.”
“But I was tempted to see if you were bathing. I’m a man who usually gives into temptation. I’m not certain why I didn’t tonight.”
“Maybe because you know you’ll have a soft bed waiting for you at my sister’s house if I catch you.”
He laughed. “Yes, that must be it. The threat of a soft bed would make the worst of rogues behave.”
He watched her smile fade and was reminded of a star falling from the heavens, its brilliance lost.
“I started sewing a pallet tonight. When I’m done, I’ll stuff it with goose feathers. Should give you some protection from the prickly straw.”
He considered telling her not to worry about him, but some padding between his body and the loft would indeed be welcome. “Where would you find goose feathers?”
“Elizabeth raises geese. She always saves the feathers.”
“A wise woman. I welcome the addition of furnishings to my humble abode.”
She shook her head and looked toward the fields. “You talk so fancy. Makes me feel like a chipped pitcher of buttermilk sitting next to a silver goblet of cream.”
“I’m sorry. Comes from years of striving to make certain no one mistook me for what I was.”
She shifted her gaze slightly. “A rogue?”
He swallowed hard. “A bastard.”
He expected horror to wash over her face. Instead, she simply gazed at him. A heavy silence stretched between them. He shoved his hands into his trousers pockets and turned his attention to the fields, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut or better yet, never left the sanctuary of the barn.
“Your parents weren’t married then?” she asked, her voice a soft caress.
He laughed mirthlessly. “My mother was a flamboyant actress. Not suitable marriage material for a man destined to become a duke.”
“Is that why your father sent you here?”
He gazed at the stars. He had once heard that some people had the trivial habit of wishing upon them. He had the distinct impression that Abigail Westland would. “Yes. He thought I could overcome the unfortunate circumstance of my birth, that it wouldn’t matter here.”
“It doesn’t.”
He looked at her directly and raised a brow, even though he doubted she could see the gesture. “You aren’t more offended that I touched you now that you know the truth?”
“No, and if your birth brings you shame, you don’t have to tell people. A lot of people who come to Texas leave unsavory things about their past at the border.”
“What possible unsavory thing could you have left at the border?”
She gave him a tentative smile that made him want to see more.
“I was born here. I’ve never been to the border to leave anything.”
“It’s just as well. I can’t imagine that there is anything about you that you would not want to acknowledge.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle and turned her attention back to the fields. “When we go into town for supplies on Saturday, we’ll purchase you a proper pair of working gloves.”
She sauntered away, a shadowy wraith in the night, and he fought the urge to trail after her. Perhaps his bastardy didn’t matter to her, but it did matter a great deal to him—had shaped him into the man he was instead of the man he wished to be.
“It is moments like this that make life worth living,” Harry murmured.
Grayson agreed wholeheartedly as he sank his aching body farther down into the huge wooden tub and enjoyed the steam rising to tickle his face.
It seemed everyone came into Fortune on Saturday, and when he’d crossed paths with Kit and Harry, he hadn’t hesitated to join them on a tour of the town, a tour that had begun with a detour by the bathing house.
He heard a shy giggle and opened his eyes slightly. A young woman stood in the doorway holding an armload of towels.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Kit said, removing the slender cigar from his mouth.
She giggled again and raised her shoulders until they touched her ears. “I shore do like the way you talk.”
“I like the way you smile,” Kit replied.
Grayson closed his eyes so she couldn’t see that he was rolling them. He heard a few steps and a soft thump so he assumed the woman had set down the towels.
“You fellas holler if you need anything else.”
He heard her giggle and the echo of her rapidly retreating footsteps.
“Lovely lass,” Kit murmured.
“She’s a child,” Grayson pointed out, snapping his eyes open.
“Hardly. I put her at seventeen. What do you think, Harry?”
“At least.”
“Still too young for you,” Grayson said.
Kit shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty she’ll become.” He angled his head thoughtfully. “Are you still being scorned?”
“I am not being scorned. I just don’t understand why you have to go after everything that wears a skirt.”
“Good God, you’ve gotten self-righteous of late,” Harry said. “It’s beginning to wear thin. He made an innocent comment—”
“His eyes held no innocence as he looked at the girl,” Grayson said.
/>
“There hasn’t been any innocence about me since I was a lad.” Kit dropped his head back against the tub. “It’s my understanding that tomorrow is a complete day of rest. Thank God. What say, when we’re finished here, we take a stroll to the saloon. I could use a stiff drink.”
Grayson thought of Abbie. He felt guilty enough indulging in the warm bath while she was shopping for supplies. She’d told him to run along and have fun with his friends—but the fun had yet to arrive.
“I’m all for it,” Harry said. “Perhaps we’ll find a little gaming as well.”
“I don’t imagine the pockets of the men of this town contain much more than lint,” Grayson said.
“They have other things of value,” Harry said.
Grayson narrowed his gaze and studied his friend. “Such as?”
“Good horseflesh for one thing.” A gleam of anticipation came into his eyes. “A sturdy wagon. A new roof on the barn—”
Grayson sat up and the water splashed around him. “A roof on the barn?”
Harry suddenly looked as though he’d been caught pilfering pockets. He waved a hand dismissively in the air. “The Widow Denby could do with a new roof on her barn, and that thing she calls a wagon is a monstrosity—all rusted and rotting.” He gave Grayson a harsh glare. “Don’t worry. I won’t take from someone who can’t afford to be taken from.”
Kit chuckled. “So Robin Hood comes to Fortune, Texas.”
“Hardly,” Harry said. “What we need to concentrate on is finding a venture that will make us wealthy without all the toil associated with cotton. It’s little wonder the South fought to keep the slaves.”
“From what I’ve seen of this state so far,” Grayson said, “I don’t think anything comes without hard work.” He stood, the warm water running in rivulets along his body.
“Ready to visit the saloon?” Kit asked.
“No, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline the invitation. I need to help Mrs. Westland load the supplies onto her wagon.”
“She loaded them just fine before you arrived,” Kit pointed out.
Grayson grabbed a towel and rubbed briskly. “Yes, well, as you say, that was before I arrived.”
Abbie ran her fingers over the calico. At ten cents a yard, it was an extravagance she couldn’t afford or justify for herself, but for the children…
Thoughtfully, she gnawed on her thumbnail. If she bought a few yards, she could sew a dress for Lydia; a few more and she could make shirts for the boys; a lot more and she could sew a shirt for Mr. Rhodes. She slammed her eyes closed. Where had that last thought come from? With his fancy linen shirts, he probably wouldn’t be caught dead in homespun. He wore John’s shirt easily enough when he worked in the fields, but he always wore his own clothes when he came to supper in the evening. She couldn’t imagine him wearing a shirt she’d sewn for him.
She heard the door to the general store open and glanced over her shoulder. Grayson Rhodes strode in. He bestowed a warm smile upon her, and her stomach furled like the petals of a flower tucking away for the night.
“I didn’t mean to stay away so long, but the temptation of a hot bath was more than I could resist. I hope I’m not too late to help you load the wagon.”
She could see the ends of his golden hair curling where they were still damp. She supposed she really needed to make arrangements for him to bathe at the house. With the thought, she felt heat suffuse her cheeks and quickly turned her attention back to the calico. She wondered if he could bathe with his clothes on. It would save her the trouble of washing them. “Uh, no, you’re not too late.”
“Hey, Mr. Rhodes!”
She turned to see Micah’s little legs churning as he raced across the general store. He slammed into a display of hoes at the end of the aisle and sent them—and himself—crashing to the floor.
Abbie rushed to his side and knelt beside him. He glanced around as though he couldn’t figure out how he’d ended up where he was. “Micah, you’ve got to watch where you’re going,” she chastised gently.
“I think he was,” Grayson said quietly as he crouched beside Micah.
Abbie jerked her head around. “What?”
She watched the Englishman scrutinizing her son as though searching for an elusive shadow.
“Micah, watch your mother,” he ordered. He peered at her. “And you watch him.”
Micah sat completely still, his eyes on her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grayson flick his fingers near Micah’s left cheek. She flinched, but Micah didn’t move. Grayson shifted his gaze to her. “I don’t think he can see.”
Horror mingled with grief swept through her. “You mean he’s blind? He can’t be blind.”
“Not completely,” he said in a calm voice. “But I’ve noticed him running around and the only time he stumbles into something is when it comes at him from the left side.”
Placing her hands on Micah’s shoulders, Abbie leaned close to her son, studying his perfect violet eyes. “Micah, can you not see properly?”
“How would he know?” Grayson asked. “If his vision has always been less than it should be, he would never realize what he was missing.”
Apprehension and guilt gnawed at Abbie. How could she not know that her son could not see? She shook her head. “He’s just clumsy. All five-year-olds have two left feet. He’s always rushing to get places, and he’s not looking—”
Grayson curved his hand over her shoulder, surprising her with the strength she felt within his grasp.
“Is there a physician in this town?”
She nodded mutely. What sort of mother wouldn’t notice that her child couldn’t see?
Abbie remembered when Johnny was three, he’d gotten the croup. She’d been terrified as the coughing fits had caused his little body to spasm and his fever had raged. She had fought to get broth down him, bathed his burning body, held him, rocked him, and sang him sweet lullabies—alone, late into the night, through the first light of dawn—until his fever broke and he smiled at her.
John’s responsibility rested in getting food on the table and tending the fields. Her responsibilities included every aspect of caring for the children, even when the task meant holding death at bay. Alone. Always alone.
So she wasn’t quite sure what to make of Grayson Rhodes as he stood beside her, questioning the doctor’s examination, assuring Micah that he’d done nothing wrong, and frequently whispering to her, “Not to worry. It’s going to be all right.”
Micah looked so small sitting in a chair while the doctor wiggled fingers in front of his face. Abbie took a step forward, and Grayson shadowed her movement. “He’s all right, isn’t he?” she asked anxiously.
“Of course he’s all right,” Dr. Hickerson said. His graying hair had a tendency to stick up like the petals on a dandelion and looked like a strong gust of wind might send it flying away. “Although I think Mr. Rhodes might be right. I don’t think Micah is seeing the world as clearly as he should.”
His knees creaked as he stood. He walked to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and began rummaging through the contents. “I don’t have much of a selection,” he said. He lifted a pair of spectacles, held them up, and peered through the lenses. “But I think these might work.”
He turned, the furrow between his brow lessening as his gaze fell on Abbie. She’d always thought he had comforting brown eyes.
“Don’t look so worried, Abbie,” he said with a smile. “This isn’t the croup.”
“But Micah needed me—”
“What he needs is spectacles,” Dr. Hickerson said as he crouched in front of Micah. “Now then, son, let’s see how these work.”
He set the spectacles on Micah’s nose and curled the metal behind his ears. The lenses made his eyes look larger than they were. Abbie’s heart tightened and she pressed a fist against her mouth when Micah’s eyes widened further with wonder.
“Everything ain’t furry,” he announced.
She watched the Englishman kneel before her s
on, angling his head one way and then the other.
“I say, they make you look rather distinguished.”
Micah wrinkled his nose and the spectacles rose slightly. “What’s that mean?”
“Handsome.”
Micah beamed, and Abbie wondered how the man always knew exactly what her child needed to hear.
Her youngest son had needed spectacles. All this time she’d simply thought he was awkward.
Night was closing in and she wondered if his world had been as dark before this afternoon. She heard him scramble to his knees in the back of the wagon and saw his tiny hand touch Grayson’s shoulder.
“Lookit!” he said, pointing his finger toward the black heavens.
A warm smile spread across Grayson’s face. “The stars. I suppose before tonight they were little more than a hazy blur.” Micah nodded and settled back down in the wagon between Johnny and Lydia. Grayson shifted his gaze from the stars to Abbie. “Stop looking as though you’re being stretched out on a rack in the dungeon.”
“What kind of mother doesn’t notice that her child can’t see?”
He wrapped his hand around her clenched fist. The warmth and comfort of his touch sent shock rippling through her. In all her years of marriage, John had never held her hand. It was only Grayson’s thumb stroking her knuckles, soothing her, that kept her from jerking free of his hold.
“Abbie, it was natural for you to assume he was a bit clumsy and would outgrow it. Any mother would have done the same.”
“You didn’t,” she snapped.
A corner of his mouth curled up. “Ah, but I’m not a mother, am I?”
She didn’t want him teasing her, didn’t want to see the warmth and understanding in his eyes.
He shifted on the bench. “Abbie, from the moment he was born, you have been in his company. From the moment he was born, he has seen the world as a bit hazy. How could either of you recognize that what you were seeing was not as it should have been?”
Tears burned her eyes. “But you did.”
His thumb ceased its stroking, and she felt his hand tighten around hers. He released her and turned his attention back to the road.
“When I was a lad, I found a mangy cat at my father’s estate in the country. Someone—I suspect the duke’s son—had plucked out its left eye. It was a clumsy creature, always running into things. The duke’s wife forbade me to bring it into the house after it knocked over one of her precious crystal vases. So I made a home for it in the stables.”
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