Chapter Two

A melia followed the towering man as his long, even strides stirred up the dust and took them past several storefronts. His spurs jangled, his coat flapped around his calves, and he pulled his hat farther down on the left side.

He stepped on the boardwalk, sending the harsh sound reverberating around her. He seemed as impatient as she was to begin the journey, and she wondered why he hadn't thought to purchase his supplies before she'd arrived. She could only be grateful that he wasn't the man she'd come to Texas to marry.

He hesitated before shoving open the door to a hotel. He moved back slightly, waiting for her to go inside. She felt as though she were still on the train, traveling headlong toward a destination she wasn't even certain was right for her.

"Why are we going in here?"she asked.

His jaw tightened as three people barged past him. "I figure by the time we're done gettin' the supplies, it'll be too late to travel today, and considering how many people got off that train, I figure we ought to get the rooms before we get the supplies."

"A very wise decision," she acknowledged as she slipped past him and entered the hotel. People crowded the lobby, closing in around her. Fighting the urge to run, she struggled to draw in air. As long as she could breathe, she could live.

Houston dropped her bag to the floor. "Wait here while I see about some rooms."

She watched him walk to the front desk, tugging on his hat. She was greatly disappointed that Dallas Leigh had not met her. She had hoped to become better acquainted with him before they exchanged their vows. But she had little hope of that happening now. Once she arrived at his ranch, she was certain they would be married. She'd have no opportunity to change her mind, return to Fort Worth, or travel home.

Home. How easily the word slipped into her mind. How difficult to remember that she no longer had a home or a family. Everything of importance, everything that meant anything to her at all was carefully packed away in the bag resting near her feet, along with the marriage contract Dallas Leigh had asked her to sign. His wording had been practical and straightforward, a guarantee that he would take her as his wife if she journeyed to Fort Worth, a guarantee that she would take him as her husband if he provided her with the funds with which to travel.

She did not begrudge him his caution. He knew as little about her as she knew of him. Trust, like love, would come with time.

As the scowling man returned to her side, she could only hope that Dallas's moods were not as dark.

"This way," he grumbled as he snatched up her bag.

She followed him through the lobby and up a distant set of stairs. At the top landing, he took a right and charged down the hallway. He inserted a key into the lock, turned it, and flung open the door. He stepped back and waited for her to enter the room.

Amelia walked into the small room. The bed beside the window immediately drew her attention. Dallas had sent her tickets that allowed her to sleep in a berth. She had taken one look at the small compartment and traded in the tickets, using the refunded money to purchase him a wedding gift—a gold pocket watch, second hand.

During her journey, she had snatched sleep here and there, sitting up, whenever she'd dared to sleep. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a bed.

She faced the man standing in the doorway. He was holding his hat, presenting her with his right side.

"I need to take the wagon and animals to the livery and let the hostler know I'll be keeping them there overnight. I thought you might want to"—he waved his hat helplessly by his thigh—"do whatever it is ladies do when they get off a train. I'll meet you in the lobby in an hour, and we'll go get those supplies."

"Where is your room?" she asked.

"This was the last room. I'll stay at the livery."

"That hardly seems fair. You're paying for the room—"

"You're gonna sleep with the horses?"

"I've slept with worse." Amelia dropped her gaze as the heat rushed to her face. She should explain that statement, but she couldn't. She didn't want to give freedom to the blurred memory lurking in a shadowed corner of her mind. "I simply meant … I am most grateful for the room, but if you wished to share it—"

"That wouldn't be proper."

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Won't we be sleeping together while we travel?"

The cheek that was visible to her reddened as he turned his hat in his hands. "No, ma'am. You'll sleep in a tent, and I'll sleep by the fire." He settled his hat onto his head. "Tonight I'll sleep at the livery. I'll be back in an hour. I'd appreciate not havin' to wait on you."

Before she could remind him that she'd had to wait on him at the depot, he slammed the door closed. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Three weeks. She would be in that man's company for three weeks, and if the past fifteen minutes were any indication of what she could expect on the journey, she anticipated an extremely lengthy three weeks.

She closed her eyes. Grateful, grateful, grateful. He had to possess some redeeming quality. She opened her eyes and smiled. She could be grateful that he appeared to be a man of few words, and she was incredibly grateful that he'd left.

He no doubt thought she had the brain of a gnat, and perhaps she did: traveling from Georgia to Texas in order to marry a man she knew only through correspondence. What if she had misjudged the tone of Dallas Leigh's letters? What if she had created in her mind a man who did not exist beyond her imagination?

Since the war, she had received offers to better her life, but none had carried the respectability of marriage. To the victor go the spoils. Her father's plantation, his wife, and his daughters had been the spoils.

Shuddering, she squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around herself. She was too tired to hold the memories and fears at bay. Too tired.

With longing, she gazed at the bed. She would sleep for just a few moments. Then she would wash away the dust of her journey and meet Houston Leigh in the lobby. She imagined it would be quite interesting to watch him bargain for supplies. With his temperament, she had little doubt he would end up paying double for anything he wanted.

She eased onto the bed, sighing with contentment. The mattress, as soft as a cloud, sank beneath her weight.

Heaven.

Just a few moments of heaven.

Hell's fury had surrounded Houston for so long that he couldn't remember if he'd ever known heaven's touch. He was afraid that if he wasn't careful, he'd drag the woman into hell with him.

He'd already hurt her feelings. He knew he had. Otherwise, she would have met him in the lobby.

He was angry at Dallas, and he had taken his anger out on the woman. He hadn't meant to, but in looking back he could see that he had.

He stood outside her door, practicing his apology. He couldn't recall ever giving an apology, and the best words to use wouldn't come to his mind. An apology to a woman should be like the piece of cloth she'd sewn for Dallas: flowery, dainty, and pretty.

Hell, he didn't know any words like that. She'd just have to be happy with the words he knew, sorely lacking though they were.

Thank God, he wasn't the one she was going to marry. He'd spent the whole morning thinking about what he would say when he met her. When he'd seen the tears glistening within her green eyes, shame had risen up and sent every word he'd practiced scattering like dust across the prairie. Shame that it had taken him so long to gather his courage and cross that platform to greet her. Shame that he hadn't considered how she might feel standing alone in a strange town waiting for a man who wasn't going to come.

At the livery, he'd thought about how he might explain the supplies. Their purchase was sure to be a delicate matter. After all his thinking and word gathering, she hadn't met him.

Now he was having to think of an apology.

He just wanted to be back at the ranch, where he could walk alone and think alone. He didn't want to answer questions, or consider another's feelings, or remove his hat.

With a heavy sigh, he removed his hat, knocked lightly on her door, and waited, the apology waiting with him, ready to be spoken as soon as she opened the door.

Only she didn't open the door.

She was either angrier than he figured or she'd left. If she'd left, he'd be the one with four bullets in his hide because Dallas always hit what he aimed at.

Earlier, without thinking, he'd placed the key to her room in his pocket, leaving her without a way to lock her door. What if someone had stolen her? Women were rare … so rare …

He knocked a little harder. "Miss Carson?"

He pressed his good ear to the door. The blast that had torn through the left side of his face had taken his hearing from that side as well. He heard nothing but silence on the other side of the door.

Gingerly, he opened the door and peered inside. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the window, bathing the woman in its honeyed glow. Curled on the bed, asleep, she looked so young, so innocent, so unworthy of his temper.

He slipped inside and quietly closed the door. He crossed the room, set his saddlebags on the floor, and sat in the plush velvet chair beside the bed. He dug his elbows into his thighs and leaned forward.

Dear God, but she was lovely, like a spring sunrise tempting the flowers to unfurl their petals. Her pale lashes rested on her pink-tinged cheeks. Her lips, even in sleep, curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He had spotted her right off, as soon as she'd arrived at the door of the railway car. Beneath that godawful ugly hat, the sun had glinted off hair that looked as though it had been woven from moonbeams. The smile she had given the porter as he'd helped her down the steps—even at a distance—had knocked the breath out of Houston.

He still wasn't breathing right. Every time he looked at her, his gut clenched as though he'd received a quick kick from a wild mustang.

She wasn't at all what he'd expected of a heart-and-hand woman. He'd expected her to look like an old shirt, washed so many times that it had lost its color and the strength of its threads. He knew women like that. Women who had traveled rough roads, become hard and coarse themselves, with harsh laughter and smiles that were too bright to be sincere. Women who knew better than to trust.

But Amelia Carson did trust. She was a heart-in-her-eyes woman. Everything she thought, everything she felt reflected clearly in her eyes. In her green, green eyes.

The warm depths reminded him of fields of clover he'd run through as a boy. Barefoot. The clover had resembled velvet caressing his rough soles. For a brief moment, he actually relished the thought of holding her gaze.

His brown eye could serve as the soil in which her green clover took root.

What an idiotic notion! The next thing he knew he'd be spouting poetry. He shuddered at the thought. Wearing flowers and spouting poetry. His pa would have tanned his hide good for either one of those unmanly actions.

He watched her sleep until the final rays of the sun gave way to the pale moonlight. He shivered as the chill of the night settled over him. Standing, he reached across the woman and folded the blankets over her. A warmth suffused him, and he imagined drawing the blankets over her every night for the rest of his life.

Only that privilege belonged to his brother. Houston had witnessed the document Dallas had drawn up, something as close to a marriage contract as he could arrange without the "I do's." For all practical purposes, Amelia Carson belonged to Dallas.

Which was as it should be. Dallas had spent a month thumbing through the tattered magazine he'd found when they'd driven the cattle to Wichita, Kansas, in the spring of seventy-five. Houston knew desperation for a son had driven Dallas to write his first letter to Amelia.

He could only wonder what had compelled her to reply, to accept his brother's offer of marriage. He settled back in the chair. It wasn't his place to wonder about her. He didn't have to like her. He didn't have to talk to her. He didn't have to be nice to her. He just had to get her to the ranch … and by God, that was all he planned to do.

Through a waking haze in which dreams still lingered in the corners of her mind, Amelia snuggled beneath the blankets, relishing the comfort of the soft bed. She had no recollection of drawing the blankets over herself, but she welcomed their protection against the chill permeating the room.

Complacent and rested, like a kitten that had spent the better part of the day lazing in the sun, she stretched languorously, inhaled deeply, and froze.

The aromas of bacon, coffee, and freshly baked bread teased her nostrils. Slowly she opened her eyes, expecting the harsh glare of the afternoon sun to streak across her vision. Instead, the soft glow of early-morning light cast its halo over the furnishings, directing most of its attention on a small cloth-covered table set in the middle of the room. The sunlight shimmered over an assortment of covered dishes.

Amelia's mouth watered at the same time that alarm rushed through her. She hadn't heard anyone come into the room.

Unexpectedly, she detected another scent, much fainter than the food causing her stomach to rumble, fainter, and yet in an odd way more powerful. Leather and horses.

She spotted saddlebags leaning against a chair near the bed. Cautiously, moving only her eyes, she allowed her gaze to sweep over the room.

Her heart stilled when she noticed the long shadow stretching across her bed. The shadow of a man. She bolted upright and jerked her gaze over her shoulder.

His left shoulder pressed against the wall, Houston Leigh stood beside the window watching her. The sunlight took a moment to outline a portion of his tall, lean frame before completing its journey into the room.

Amelia threw off the blankets and scrambled out of bed, her knees almost hitting the floor before she jumped upright. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, the rapid thudding of her heart vibrating beneath her fingers. "Mr. Leigh, it's morning."

"Yes, ma'am," he acknowledged with a slow drawl that did nothing to calm her erratic heart.

"You must think me terribly rude. I only meant to sleep for a moment—"

"Didn't think you were rude at all. Just figured you were tired. Figure now you're probably hungry." He inclined his head slightly in the direction of the table.

"You did this?" she asked as she cautiously neared the table.

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Needed to make up for yesterday. Dallas would have my hide if he knew how I treated you yesterday."

"Does he anger easily?"

"He's not a man you want to rile." He settled his hat into place. "Enjoy your meal."

He had picked up the saddlebags, slung them over his shoulder, and walked halfway across the room, his hat pulled low on the left side before Amelia realized he was leaving. "Aren't you going to join me?"

"I've already eaten."

"Then just keep me company." He hesitated, and she knew she should let him leave, but she was incredibly tired of being alone. "Please."

His answer came in the form of a movement toward the table as he removed his hat and draped the saddlebags over the back of a nearby chair.

Amelia rushed to take her seat. He took the chair opposite her, turned it slightly so she had a clear view of his profile, and stared at the hat he held on his lap.

Houston searched the farthest recesses of his mind, but he couldn't locate anything worth commenting on. He thought about telling her that her hair was falling down on the left side, but he was afraid she'd hop up and straighten it, pulling it back into that coil she was wearing the day before. He liked the way it looked now, drooping as it was. He secretly hoped it might work its way free and tumble down her back.

Dallas would, of course, prefer to see every strand pulled back and held in its proper place. The man was a stickler for orderliness, but Houston had always thought a woman's hair should flow around her as freely as the wind blew across the prairie.

He thought about describing Dallas's ranch, but she'd see it soon enough, and he didn't have the skill with words to do the place justice. A discussion of his own place probably wouldn't interest her. It was a pretty piece of land, but it would never bring a man wealth or glory.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" she asked.

"I'm sure," he replied, cursing his gut for jumping into his throat at the sound of her voice. All he had to do was sit still while she ate and give her no reason to bring up her breakfast. The sight of his face had made him bring up his meals a few times in the beginning, but that was years ago when the wounds were still raw … and the guilt still festering.

Amelia tore off a piece of warm bread and lathered it with butter, quietly studying the man sitting across from her. His gaze remained fixed on his hat, his brow furrowed as though he were desperately searching for something just beyond reach.

"How did you and your brothers come by your names?" she asked before she bit into the bread with enthusiasm.

"Our parents lacked imagination. They just named us after wherever it was they were living at the time we were born."

"I suppose you're grateful that they weren't living in Galveston when you were born."

He seemed to contemplate her answer for a moment, as though she'd made her comment in all earnestness. His jaw tensed. "I reckon I would be if I'd ever thought about it."

She had hoped for a smile, a chuckle, a laugh, but Houston Leigh appeared to be a man who did not give into lighthearted banter or teasing. That knowledge saddened her. Everyone needed smiles and laughter to replace the absence of sunshine in a stormy life. She hoped the brothers didn't share this stern outlook on life. "Do you think Dallas will want to carry on the family tradition and name our children after towns in Texas?"

"I'm not sure what names he favors." He shifted in his chair and brought one foot up, resting it on his knee.

Amelia chewed slowly on the bacon and eggs, savoring the flavors, wondering how she could gather all the information about her future husband that she didn't have. Letters could only reveal a man's thoughts. She did not know his smile, the sound of his laughter, or the way emotions might play across his features. She was incredibly curious about every aspect of him and his life. "Dallas mentioned Austin quite often in his letters."

Houston gave a brusque nod. "He's right fond of Austin. You'll like him, too. He's the sort people take to right away."

As he spoke of his younger brother, a trace of warmth flowed through his voice, reminding her of snuggling before a fire on a cold winter's night. She wanted to keep the flames flickering. "I don't remember how old Austin is."

"Sixteen."

"Then he's spared any memories of the war." "I doubt that."

Amelia set her fork down. "But he would have been so young. Surely he doesn't remember—"

Houston slid his foot off his knee, and it hit the floor with a resounding thud. He shifted in the chair. "I'd rather not talk about the war, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," she said softly, aware that she'd lost the warmth in his voice, in his manner. He clenched his jaw as though he were fighting desperately to remain where he was. She could feel the tension radiating around him, palpable in its intensity. Although more than ten long years had passed, the war still continued to rip through people's lives. "Do you think Dallas will try to break that mustang again when his leg heals?"

He scooted up in the chair, then slid back. "I let it go," he said in a voice so low she wasn't quite certain she heard him correctly.

"I beg your pardon?"

He grimaced slightly. "I set the horse free." "

Why?"

He slowly waved his large hand through the air as though it were a curtain billowing in a spring breeze. "The horse had a heavy, wavy mane and tail. That marks it as tricky and dangerous. Figured Dallas would eventually kill the horse or it would kill him." He sighed. "So I set it free."

"You said he wasn't a man you wanted to rile. Didn't that rile him?"

"He was still laid up in bed. I was long gone by the time he discovered what I'd done."

"So you'll have to deal with his anger once you return to the ranch."

"I'm hoping your presence will distract him, and he'll forget about the horse."

Amelia cleared her throat. Houston shifted his gaze to her, and she lifted an eyebrow. "So, shortly after I meet your brother in person, I'll learn whether or not he values me more than he does a horse?"

Horror swept over his face. "I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," Amelia said, smiling as she carefully folded her napkin and placed it on the table. "I've finished eating."

Houston bolted from the chair. "Good. I'll have someone send up some hot water for a bath. It'll be some time before you'll have that luxury."

He crammed his hat on his head, adjusting it to the lopsided angle to which she'd grown accustomed. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder and walked to the door in long strides that complemented his height.

"Is Dallas as tall as you?" she asked.

He halted, one hand on the doorknob. "Taller."

He opened the door and hesitated. "I'll be back in about an hour. Then we'll go get the last of the supplies." He slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Amelia shoved away from the table, walked to the washstand, and glanced in the mirror. She groaned. Her hair had come loose and was sticking out like the raised fur on an angry cat.

Little wonder Houston Leigh had avoided looking at her.

She heaved a deep sigh of longing. A warm bath. The purchase of a few supplies. Then she would begin what she was certain would be the most important journey of her life.