“They come running out of hiding when you fell. I didn’t know they were here, Abigail. They’re sitting in the front parlor now—if they know what’s good for them.”
She felt his heavy hand come to rest on her stomach. She turned her head slightly.
“I know how much you love children,” he said, his eyes on his hand instead of her. “This one…I’ll claim it as mine if you’ll stay with me.”
With tears in her eyes, she laid her hand over his. He turned his palm up and did what he’d never before done: wove their fingers together.
17
“The responsibilities you owe one person don’t stop because you love another more. John was a good husband in his own way. I can’t be less than a good wife.”
Grayson pondered Abbie’s words as he walked along the beach at Galveston, the waves washing upon the shore. He found it disconcerting to discover that he was beginning to view his father and the choices he’d made a little differently, perhaps with a bit more tolerance. Perhaps love was not determined by the measure of things but rather the measure of sacrifice.
What had it cost his father to openly accept and raise his bastard son? His father had never hinted at any personal detriment—yet Grayson knew Abbie would hide the cost to herself from those she loved, would lock it away inside her heart, and never dwell on what might have been.
Had his father done the same? Until a woman with violet eyes had shown him, Grayson hadn’t under stood that love was greater than obligation because it could step aside and never lose its importance.
He could not help but think that he had done a disservice to his father.
He listened as the seagulls screeched around him. He decided that he had lied to Abbie when he said he wasn’t fond of salt air because in the two days since their arrival, he had found himself walking the docks and staring out to sea more often than not, and breathing in the warm salt air.
He had no desire to do anything else.
“Of course you don’t feel like doing anything,” Kit had assured him. “You’re healing.”
But it was more than that. Where before his life had seemed to have little meaning—now it had none whatsoever. Without Abbie to brighten his days, they possessed a bleakness that made him wonder how he managed to get out of bed.
But he did. Long before dawn. It was ironic really. He had nothing to do, and yet he walked the wharves, watching the sun come up and the fishermen head out to sea. He had seen the enormous fish the men caught when they took their boats out, and he thought how much he’d enjoy taking Johnny and Micah fishing on the gulf waters. He could almost envision their excitement as they climbed aboard a boat—and Abbie’s worry as he took them away from shore.
He rubbed his aching shoulder. The wound was healing, but it seemed particularly sensitive today.
The sun hovered at the edge of the water, a red and orange orb slowly sinking away. He wondered what the day had wrought for his friends.
He saw the weathered Anne Marie making its way toward the dock. He ambled to the slip where he knew the old sailor would moor his boat. He had met the man upon first arriving at Galveston. Jack was a colorful sort whose personal habits left a bit to be desired. Grayson doubted the man ever bathed, but his jovial laughter echoed along the island coast.
“Hey, boyo!” Jack called out as he tossed a rope onto the dock.
Grayson secured the line. “How was the fishing today?”
“I told you, boyo, I don’t fish, I crab.” He sent a stream of spittle into the water. “And today the catch was lousy. There’s a storm comin’ in.”
He rocked with the boat. Grayson was amazed the man never seemed to lose his balance and topple into the water. He looked toward the dark blue sky. “How do you know there’s a storm coming?”
“Lookit here,” Jack said as he grabbed the large claws of a crab and held the creature over his head. The normally silver and blue back was barely visible through the mud coating it.
“Looks as though he could use a bath,” Grayson admitted.
Jack snorted. “He was hiding in the mud, afeared of the storm.” He tossed the hapless crab back into the water. “Bad storm comin’. You and your mates had best head inland.”
Grayson crouched on the edge of the dock. “Because a crab got a bit dirty?”
Jack squinted his one good eye. A white cloud covered the other and Grayson thought the old man might have more luck with the ladies if he wore an eye patch.
“I know because I didn’t catch no crabs today, except for that bugger. They go deep when there’s a storm brewing. Bury themselves in the mud. That’s how I know. ’Cuz I know crabs.” He wagged his finger. “Go inland, boyo.”
“Scurry away from a little rain and wind?”
Jack scrambled onto the dock, the wiry white hair on his chest visible because he didn’t seem to realize buttons had a purpose. “A tempest. A hurricane. It destroys everything in its path.” He wrapped his gnarled, bony fingers around Grayson’s arm and pulled him down until they were eye level. “I was here in thirty-seven when the sea’s fury was unleashed like the wrath of God. October it was. For three days and three nights, the heavens battled the earth. The mighty hand of God threw eight ships onto dry land. Broken masts and rigging were strewn about everywhere.” His fingers tightened their hold. “Only one house survived the onslaught.”
“You think that sort of storm is headed this way?”
“Aye, boyo. Mark my words on it. You can see it gathering its strength on the horizon. Might not hit Galveston, but it’ll hit somewhere along the coast.”
Grayson looked toward the distance where the sky met the sea in a calm straight line. He could barely discern the dark clouds. He thought of Abbie and her comment about storms. Was this what she feared? A hurricane? He didn’t think enough cotton remained to worry over, but it sounded as though the storm could harm far more than the white bolls. “How far inland does it travel?”
“One, two, three hundred miles. Just depends on its power, its anger. Nature ain’t a kind mistress when she’s been scorned.” He released his death grip and smiled, revealing a grin that had few teeth. “Have I ever showed ya how I can lift a schooner over me head?”
Grayson had always thought a schooner was a ship—so did Harry when he accepted Jack’s wager, certain the old man couldn’t lift a boat with his scrawny arms. With a lustful laugh, Jack had ordered a schooner of beer, lifted it over his head, and taken Harry’s money. “Yes, you showed me.”
With a nod, he patted Grayson’s shoulder. “Head inland.”
Grayson found Kit in the saloon where they had taken rooms. He was sitting at a table in the corner, papers strewn before him as he made meticulous notes. He barely looked up when Grayson took a chair. “Where’s Harry?”
“Haven’t a clue. Off gambling somewhere, I imagine,” Kit mumbled.
“In that disreputable part of town?”
“Probably.”
“Jack says we should head inland. There’s a storm coming.”
“What’s a little rain and wind?”
“Apparently these are more than that. I know storms coming up from the coast were a concern to Abbie.”
Kit ceased his writing and looked at Grayson. He hated seeing the sympathy in his friend’s eyes.
“Were you thinking of warning her?”
“If we happened to be in the area…I thought I might just look in, make sure she’s all right—” He placed his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands up and down his face. “Christ, I can’t stop thinking about her, wondering if my leaving was the best thing to do.” He peered over his fingers at Kit. “I feel as though I did what I’ve done all my life—shirked my responsibilities.”
“It was a difficult situation, Gray. Westland said he would accept the child as his. Although I’m not totally unbiased, in the long run I think you made the best of a poor situation.”
Grayson nodded. Christ, he hoped so. He nudged a sheet of paper toward Kit. “What’s a
ll this?”
A gleam came into Kit’s eyes. “Our future.” He eased up in his chair and folded his arms on the table. “I think cattle is the way to go. I was talking with a couple of gents earlier—they were ranchers before the war. Most ranchers who joined the Confederacy simply set their cattle free—to roam the wilds as it were. They say to the west of here the cattle have been reproducing like rabbits—and they belong to no one.”
“So you just take them?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why isn’t everyone doing it?”
“I think everyone will do it—eventually.” Kit moved some papers aside and spread a copy of the New York Daily Tribune across the table. He pointed to an article. “They are desperate for beef up north. One of those cows we saw wandering near Fortune is worth four dollars here. But if we can get it to a northern market, we can get forty dollars for it.”
“So you take a few cattle—”
“A thousand. At least a thousand. We gather them up. We burn our brands into their hides and guide them to market.” He shuffled the papers around. “Of course, with that many cattle, we’ll need more than the three of us but since it will be our enterprise, we will receive the bulk of the profits. We’ll need supplies…” He looked up a little sheepishly. “I’ve got most of it worked out. Our expenses, maps, the routes we can take to get through Kansas.” He grazed his thumb over the scar beneath his chin. “But to truly make a fortune, we must be the first.”
Grayson studied the notes spread before him. Kit’s penchant for detail was incredible. “It sounds risky.”
“It is. So I know Harry will go for it…which is good since we’ll be using his funds to purchase our supplies.”
“Sounds as though it might be easier than cotton farming.”
“Definitely. All we have to do is prod a few cattle and the herding instinct will have the rest following. Nothing could be simpler.”
Grayson narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t help but believe there was more to it than Kit either knew or was revealing. “When were you thinking of pursuing this undertaking?”
“The sooner the better. I’d like to leave in the morning.”
Grayson chuckled. “Not excited about this, are you?”
“It’s like making love to a woman for the first time. You aren’t exactly sure what to expect, but you know you’ll experience a great deal of satisfaction.”
The area around Market Street raised the hairs on the back of Grayson’s neck and arms. Prostitution, gambling, and drunkenness ran rampant, blatantly ignored by the city marshal and his minions. The opportunity for vices and the tolerance of them was supposedly the legacy of a pirate named Jean Lafitte.
Grayson followed Kit into a shadowy saloon that made the one in Fortune look downright grand. He couldn’t stop his gaze from darting warily around the room while they ambled to the bar.
Kit signaled for the bartender. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. Tall chap, black hair, black beard, likes to play cards—”
“Red vest, black jacket?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Harry had purchased new clothes as soon as they’d arrived in Galveston. A need to cast off the image of cotton farming, he’d said.
With a quick flick of his wrist, the bartender slapped his towel on the bar, killing a fly. “Some fellas took him out back.”
Grayson didn’t like the sound of that, or the sneer on the man’s face and the triumph in his eyes.
Kit leaned forward slightly. “I beg your pardon? Out back?”
The bartender gave a nod. “Behind the saloon. Caught him cheatin’. It’ll be a cold day in hell before he cheats ’round here again.”
They found him huddled in a corner, cradling his right hand.
“Good God, Harry, are you all right?” Kit asked as he crouched beside him.
Grayson knelt as well, holding his breath against the surrounding stench.
“They broke my hand,” Harry said quietly, his voice strained as though fighting the pain.
“Ah, God,” Grayson said, slipping his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Let’s get you up and to a physician.”
“It was a damn physician that broke my hand. Said he could do it so it’d never heal properly. Damn bastard.” Harry flinched. “Sorry, Gray. No offense meant.”
“None taken.”
“We’ll get you to a physician in the better part of town,” Kit assured him, helping Grayson get Harry to his feet. “Once we’re done there, we’re going to take your money and invest in cattle—”
“There is no money.”
Grayson and Kit exchanged bewildered glances, before returning their attention to Harry. Grayson knew they should concern themselves with Harry’s injury and not his money—
“You mean the men who attacked you stole your money—”
“No.”
“You gambled some of it away—” Kit began.
“No!” Harry lunged out of their grasp. “There is no money. There never was any money. How in the bloody hell do you think my father forced me to come here?”
Breathing heavily, he slumped against the wall. “I wagered it away in England. A bloody fortune. Creditors were breathing down my neck. My father said he would pay my debts if I agreed to come here.”
“Why didn’t you tell us the truth?” Kit asked. “Why did you allow us to believe—”
“Because I thought my luck would change…that I’d win enough back that you need never know what a fool I’d been.”
A heavy silence descended until all Grayson could hear was the distant roar of the surf. “How did you manage to play games of chance without money?”
Harry sighed deeply. “The myth of English nobility. I convinced them that as the son of an earl, I was good for it.”
“And when they discover differently?” Kit prodded.
Harry released a mirthless laugh. “Then I shall probably find myself at the bottom of the sea.”
Grayson stepped forward and extended his hand toward his friend. “Come on. Let’s get your hand tended. There’s supposedly a storm brewing. I think it would serve us well to leave before its arrival.”
Harry staggered forward. “All is not lost. If you’re willing to return to Fortune, I think I might know where we can get the funds.”
“I ain’t never been fishin’ in a boat before!”
Abbie smiled at Johnny, trying not to let her apprehension show. On the ground, the thing John called a boat rocked from side to side when Johnny clambered into it. She didn’t want to think what it would do on the water.
John must have had some doubts himself since he’d forbidden Micah to go until he’d learned to swim. He was explaining to Johnny how to use the paddles to maneuver the boat. Johnny’s head was bobbing so fast and hard that she was surprised it didn’t go flying off his shoulders.
John unfolded his body and Johnny climbed out of the boat. “We’re gonna be real fishermen, Ma.”
“You sure are.”
John stepped around the boat, took her hand, and gave her a small kiss on the cheek. “You try and rest while we’re gone.”
“Are you sure that thing is safe?”
He gave her a hesitant smile. “My pa took me fishing in it.”
“I thought old boats rotted.”
“If you got ’em sitting in water. We kept this one in the shed. ’Sides, Johnny can swim.”
“And what about you?”
She saw the red creep up his face. She was slowly realizing that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been giving affection. Awkward moments still existed between them, but they were both working to make better out of worse. She didn’t think a woman could ask more of her man than that.
“Yeah, I know how to swim, too.”
Lifting a hand, she shielded her gaze from the sun and looked in the distance. She saw dark clouds forming. “It looks like a storm might be coming in.”
John squinted. “Ah, it’s been lookin’ like that for days now.
Nothing will come of it.”
“You’ll lose what’s left of the cotton in the field if it is a storm.”
She saw him hesitate and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Johnny had done nothing for days but talk about the fishing trip he was going to take with his father. She just wished the chills would stop racing along her spine whenever she thought of Johnny in a boat on the water. It was ridiculous really. John was a strong man, a good swimmer. He wouldn’t do anything to endanger his son.
She released a dry laugh. “I’m just being silly. Take Johnny fishing. Lydia, Micah, and I will stroll through the fields—”
“I want you resting.”
She smiled, wondering if she’d ever grow accustomed to his concern. She patted his shoulder. “Go on. Get on with your fishing.”
He lifted the heavy end of the boat while Johnny lifted the lighter end. She watched them trudge toward the woods, father and son.
“Come back if it starts to rain!” she called after them.
John waved a hand in the air just before they disappeared into the woods.
She looked toward the south, hoping those dark clouds would go back the way they’d come.
“Well, English, I never expected to see your shadow crossing our threshold again.”
Grayson had never in his life seen Harry blush. He found it rather amusing as Harry approached Jessye.
“They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Jessye love, I never knew what those words meant until I left—”
She held up a hand. “I ain’t buying it, Harry.” She gave a curt nod. “What happened to your hand?”
Harry turned his hand one way, then the other as though only just noticing the heavy bandage that kept the bones in place. “I was playing a bit of poker in Galveston, having quite a bit of luck actually, and some fellows—”
“Figured out you were cheating.”
Harry’s shoulders slumped forward. “Yes.”
“I warned you about cheating. You’re damn lucky they left your hand attached to your arm.”
“I’m not so sure. It hurts like bloody hell.”
“You and your friends find a table. I’ll bring you some whiskey.” She winked conspiratorially. “For medicinal purposes.”
Rogue in Texas Page 24