Chapter Five

A melia awoke to the scent of strong coffee permeating the air. She had a feeling it would be as thick as molasses on a winter's day. Grimacing slightly, she rolled off the cot. Every muscle, every bone she possessed protested her movements.

Standing, she pressed her fists into the small of her back and stretched backward. She wondered if she would be better off walking part of the day. Sitting in a jostling wagon was hard on the body.

Using the remaining water from last night, she quickly washed her face, then separated the strands of her braid, brushed her hair, and swept it into a coil. She glanced at her clothing, wishing now that she'd taken the time to wash it while they were near a creek. She had no idea if they would have water every night.

She carefully placed all her belongings into her carpetbag, folded the blankets that had covered the cot, and put out the flame in the lantern. It was a childish thing, really, to sleep with a flame burning beside her.

Cautiously, not certain what she would find beyond the tent this morning, she slipped her fingers between the tent opening and peered through the small slit. She could see Houston crouched before a boulder, a razor in his hand. He had set a jagged mirror no larger than the palm of her hand on the rock so it rested against the tree. He tilted his head slightly and slid the razor up his throat, scraping away the shaving lather and his morning beard.

Amelia withdrew from the opening, and with excitement thrumming through her veins, she snapped open her bag and reached inside. She withdrew her mirror, a large hand mirror that had belonged to her mother.

She rushed out of the tent, grateful that at last she had a way to thank him for all he'd done for her: the tent, the fire, the meals, the warm water. "Mr. Leigh!"

He turned, a furrow creasing his brow.

"You can use my mirror," she said ecstatically as she thrust it toward him.

Waving his hand through the air, he jumped back as though she had offered him a snake. "God Almighty, get that away from me!"

Amelia hugged the mirror against her chest. "But it's so much larger than yours. I thought it would make shaving easier."

"I don't even know why I bother to shave," he mumbled as he picked up the small mirror and dropped it into a box along with the rest of his shaving gear. "Do whatever it is you need to do to be ready. Coffee and biscuits are by the fire. We'll be leavin' right after breakfast."

Tears filled her eyes as she watched him rush out of the camp as though his life depended on it. She pressed the mirror closer to her chest. She wondered if he used the smaller mirror so he wouldn't have to see all of his face at the same time, if in small pieces, perhaps he could pretend he wasn't disfigured.

He'd only been fifteen when he had been wounded. She tried to imagine how devastating it would have been for a fifteen-year-old boy to awaken from battle to discover that a portion of his face had been ravaged by enemy fire. An older man who had learned not to place much value in appearances might have adjusted, but a young man who had yet to court and marry might have withdrawn from the world.

Every conversation they had shared—with the exception of one—had begun when she had asked a question. She had assumed that he considered her a burden. Now, she wondered if perhaps he simply had no experience at socializing. He always looked as though he was searching for something. Could he possibly be searching for something to say?

She held out her mirror and studied her reflection. She wasn't prone to vanity, but she couldn't imagine avoiding the sight of her face. She thought of him tugging his hat brim down, leaning against walls, and standing in shadows. She had a feeling Houston Leigh carried other scars that were visible only to the heart.

Houston knelt beside the creek, habit forcing him to stir up the water before he leaned over to fill the canteens. Still waters could throw a man's reflection back at him.

He dropped to his backside, closed the canteens, and rubbed his hands over his face. He owed her another apology. His reaction to her kindness had frightened her. He'd seen it in those eyes of clover that reflected her heart as openly as a book. They had been filled with joy when he'd turned around, and he'd walked away leaving them filled with despair.

He felt as though he'd just squashed a beautiful butterfly for doing little more than innocently landing on his shoulder.

He closed his eye against the memory of last night. He owed her an apology for that as well, even though she had no way of knowing what had transpired by the campfire after she had walked into the tent. How did a man apologize for taking advantage of a situation without causing more harm?

One way or another he needed to make amends. His lustful thoughts had no place on this journey.

He picked up a stick and drew an "A" in the mud. He traced the right side until the groove was deep and water began to seep into it. Then he carved the "D" and stared at his brother's brand, emblazoning the sight in his mind and on his heart.

He knew that the marriage ceremony that would take place when they arrived at the ranch was only a formality. As far as Dallas was concerned, Amelia had become his wife the day he had joined her initial to his. Houston would do well to remember that.

He tossed the muddy stick aside, forced himself to his feet, and wandered back to camp, his apology tagging along like an unwanted puppy.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his practiced words forgotten as he stared at Amelia walking through the camp, her hand covering her left eye. She tripped over a rock, stumbled, caught her balance, glanced down, her eye still covered, and spoke to the rock as though it were some child who had wandered across her path. "Oh, I didn't see you."

She lifted her gaze and continued to roam the small area, her skirt coming dangerously close to the fire.

"What do you think you're doing?" he bellowed.

She spun around. Her cheeks flamed red as she lowered her hand. "I was trying to see the world as you see it."

He hunkered down before the fire and poured the remaining coffee over the low flames. "Believe me, you don't want to see the world as I see it."

With small hesitant steps, she eased closer to the fire, wringing her hands. He knew he should apologize now, but damn if he could remember the words he wanted to use.

"I've noticed that you try to keep … your … your right side facing me. I thought it was because you were trying to spare me the sight of your scars …"

Her words sliced through him like a knife. If he could, he'd spare her his presence altogether. Damn Dallas. All six bullets wouldn't be enough satisfaction.

"I realize now that your vision is hampered," she continued.

"I'm like a horse that wears blinders on one side, so just stay to the right of me," he said gruffly.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"You didn't embarrass me. You just came dang close to setting your skirt on fire."

"Oh." She gnawed on her lower lip. "At least you don't have to squint when you aim a rifle."

His gaze hardened on hers. Sympathy filled those green eyes, along with the tears.

"I was trying to think of a reason why you might be grateful that you lost an eye. I know it's a silly reason, but sometimes when I'm bothered by something if I can find a reason to be grateful—"

Drawing himself up to his full height, he glared down on her. "Do you know what would have made me grateful, Miss Carson?"

She shook her head slightly.

"If I'd lost both eyes."

As dusk settled in, Amelia scrubbed her blouse viciously in the warm bucket of water Houston had brought her—in silence. He hadn't spoken a full sentence since that morning. He'd grunted, yepped, noped, and for the most part left her alone.

They'd set up camp a little earlier than they did yesterday because he wanted to keep them near water as long as possible. He'd shot a hare for the evening meal. Amelia had wanted to crawl into the dirt and hide when he strode into camp with the hare and his rifle. How could she have said what she did this morning? How could she have thought he'd be grateful for the loss of an eye or the scarring of a face that she was certain would have made women swoon with its rugged beauty?

She knew she could apologize a hundred times, but that wasn't what Houston Leigh wanted … or needed. He needed to be accepted as he was, to learn that he didn't have to hug walls or view life through shadows of his own making.

Rising, she slapped her blouse over the side of the wagon, smoothing out the wrinkles so the material could dry through the night. She trailed her fingers over Dallas's brand. She had expected so much more from this trip: laughter, stolen kisses, promises of happiness.

She should leave Houston to mope around in the world he had no desire to share. She should focus her thoughts on Dallas and how she could best make him happy. She wasn't learning much about him from his brother, but perhaps if she read his letters again, she would discover something she'd missed.

She dumped the water out of the bucket, straightened her back with a sigh, and began walking toward the tent and solitude.

A horse's whinny caught her attention. Glancing toward the area where Houston had tethered the mules, she stumbled to a stop.

Houston sat on a log, his left side to her so she was not visible to him. He'd laid a checkerboard on a tree stump. Beside his feet lay his folded duster, his hat on top of it.

He was leaner than she'd expected, and yet his shoulders fanned out as he planted his elbow on his thigh and cupped his chin in his palm. He had rolled up his sleeves, and she could see the strength in his forearm. Before him, his horse snorted.

"You sure?" Houston asked.

The horse bobbed her head.

"All right," Houston replied and moved a black checker piece across the board. He promptly picked up his own red disk and jumped the black one he'd just moved.

The horse whinnied, dipped her head, and nudged the checkerboard off the tree stump.

"God damn! You're a sorry loser," Houston whispered harshly.

Laughing, Amelia approached the duo. In one seamless movement, Houston grabbed his hat, settled it on his head, sprang to his feet, and spun around.

"Thought you were washin' your clothes," he said from beneath the shadows of his brim.

She took no offense at his actions, but the sadness swept through her. He trusted his horse, but not her. She fought to keep her feelings from showing on her face as she rubbed the horse's shoulder. "I was, but it doesn't take long to wash a blouse." She eyed him speculatively. "I suppose I should have offered to wash your shirt."

"That's not necessary. On a cattle drive, a man gets used to having dirty clothes for a while."

"But we're not on a cattle drive. I'll wash your shirt tomorrow."

He opened his mouth as though to protest, and then snapped it shut.

Amelia pressed her face against the horse's neck. "I never mentioned that I think your horse is beautiful. I thought she was brown, but sometimes when the sun hits her coat just right, she looks red."

"She's a sorrel. Got speed and endurance bred into her, and she's smart as a whip."

She studied the man who was watching the horse with obvious affection. She remembered his description of the horse that had broken Dallas's leg. "You know a lot about horses."

"I'm a mustanger. It's my job to know a horse's temperament. With mustangs, it's usually easy. Their coloring gives them away. A dun with a black mane and tail is hardy, an albino is worthless, a black is a good horse unless he has a wavy tail and mane."

"That's amazing," she said quietly, more impressed with how much he'd spoken rather than what he'd said. "Do you raise them?"

"Startin' to. They used to run wild over Texas, but they're gettin' harder to find so I've taken to breedin' 'em."

She rubbed the horse's muzzle. "What's her name?"

"Sorrel." He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. "Reckon I got as much imagination as my parents."

She laughed lightly, delighted with the conversation. Although he still wore his hat, he had relaxed his stance. He appeared to be more at ease with horses than with people. She wondered what would make him comfortable around her, what would have to happen in order for him to leave his hat on the ground. "I play checkers. Probably better than your horse."

He narrowed his eye. "My horse is pretty good."

She tilted her chin. "I'm better."

"You willin' to put that claim to a test?"

She'd thought he would never ask, but decided against showing too much enthusiasm. She didn't want to frighten away the easy companionship that was settling in beneath the shade. She simply waltzed to the log where he'd been sitting and tilted up her face, offering the challenge, "Why not?"

He shot across the short space like a bullet fired from a gun, gathered his playing board and pieces, and set them carefully on the tree stump. He playfully shoved Sorrel aside when the horse nudged his shoulder. "This ain't your game. Get outta here." Then he dropped down, sitting back on his haunches, and the game began.

Amelia had never seen anyone concentrate so hard on a game. Houston balanced himself on the balls of his feet, his elbow resting on his thigh, his chin in his palm, studying each move she made as though each move were equally important.

She remembered playing checkers with her father before the war. Their games went quickly, and usually ended with both of them laughing, neither of them winning. She was beginning to understand why Houston's horse had tipped over the board.

"My father taught me to play checkers," she said. "If I thought I was going to lose, I'd move the pieces when he wasn't looking. He always pretended not to notice."

"You say that like you loved him."

"Of course I loved him. Very much. He was my father. Didn't you love your father?"

"Not particularly."

She sensed from the tightening of his jaw that he might have regretted voicing his feelings.

"Your move," he grumbled.

She promptly removed another one of his pieces from the board and settled in for the long wait as he contemplated his strategy. With his thumb, he tipped his hat off his brow. His attention clearly focused on the game, she was certain he didn't realize that he'd allowed the shadows to slip away from his face. She welcomed the opportunity to view more than his profile. The black patch was larger than many she'd seen. She supposed that he wanted to leave as few scars visible as he could. Her fingers flexed, and just as she had when she had first met him, she felt an overwhelming desire to touch the unsightly scars with compassion. She imagined holding him to her breast, easing the pain that still lingered within his remaining eye.

An unexpected warmth suffused her as though she'd wandered too close to a roaring blaze. She balled her hands into tight fists to stop her fingers from trembling, from reaching toward a face that fascinated her with the history it revealed. Houston's marred features left no doubt that he'd fought in the war. She wondered if Dallas's countenance revealed as much.

"Was Dallas wounded during the war?" she asked.

Houston tugged on the brim of his hat, bringing the shadows home. "Nope."

She chastised herself, wondering if she'd ever remember how quickly talk of the war distanced Houston. Although he sat across from her, she sensed that he was retreating. She wanted desperately to keep him near.

"Does Dallas play?" she asked, grateful to see the stiffness roll out of Houston's shoulders as he leaned forward.

"With all he has goin', I don't imagine he has time."

"Don't the two of you ever play?"

He reached toward a piece, then pulled back his hand without touching or moving the disk. "No."

He scrutinized the board with such intensity that Amelia wished she had planned to lose. With a sigh, he moved a piece forward, placing it so she had no choice but to jump over and claim it. She was certain he intended to forfeit his piece in order to gain two of hers, but she didn't think it would be enough of a sacrifice for him to win. She somehow knew that her winning would also be her loss.

She slipped her fingers beneath the board and quickly tossed it off the stump.

"What the—" He glared at her with obvious displeasure.

Amelia smiled sheepishly. "I thought I might lose."

"You knew darn good and well that you weren't gonna lose."

He reached for the board, and Amelia wrapped her fingers around his arm. He stilled, the muscles beneath her fingers tensing. "It was only a game. You're supposed to have fun when you're playing a game."

"I was havin' fun," he said gruffly.

"You were?"

He nodded, but the muscles beneath her hand didn't relax.

"Then let's play again." She settled into place while he set up the game. She allowed him to have five moves before she dumped the board over.

"Dang it!" he roared.

"You weren't having fun," she said.

"I sure as heck was. I was gonna win that time."

She smiled sweetly. "No, you weren't."

"You're aggravating, you know that?" he said as he collected his board and pieces.

"Does Dallas smile more often than you do?" she asked.

"Everyone smiles more than I do." He laid the board on the stump and put the pieces into place. "Go ahead and move."

Amelia leaned forward and placed her elbow on the stump of the tree, cradling her chin in her palm. "Why don't you smile?"

He averted his gaze, and Amelia studied his perfect profile, imagining how he might have looked if a portion of his face hadn't been torn to shreds when he was a young man. Women would have fallen over themselves to gain his attention. They might have said he was handsome as sin.

He certainly had the temperament of the devil.

"You feel up to riding?" he asked.

His words startled her. The shadows were lengthening. "You want to travel at night?"

He drew his gaze back to hers. "No, I just want to show you somethin' if you feel up to riding. Of course, you'll have to ride on the horse with me."

She glanced at Sorrel and the saddle on the ground. She hadn't ridden in years, not since her father had died. A horse wasn't nearly as wide as the seat of a wagon. She wouldn't be able to avoid the accidental brushing of thighs or elbows. She wouldn't be able to ignore the closeness of Houston's body. Her mouth went dry with the thought, her heart pounding. He wanted to share something with her. No matter how small, friendship was built on sharing. "What are you going to show me?"

"If I could describe it, I wouldn't have to show you."

She rose from the log. "Then I'd like to see it."

A few minutes later, he led Sorrel over to her and lifted her onto the saddle. She clung to the pommel as he slipped a booted foot into the stirrup and threw a leg over the back of the horse.

Reaching around her, he took hold of the reins. "Relax," he ordered. "You'll make the horse nervous."

"I am relaxed," she squeaked, nestled between his thighs, her shoulder bumping against his chest.

"Yeah, and I was having fun playing checkers," he said in a low voice as he prodded the horse forward.

The gently rolling plains stretched out before them. She glanced over her shoulder, but Fort Worth was beyond her vision, a piece of her past now. Her future lay ahead.

Sorrel plodded up a steep rise. When they reached the crest of the hill, Houston brought the horse to a halt, dismounted, and gazed toward the horizon.

"See where the sun touches the land?" he asked in a reverent voice.

"Yes."

"That's where you'll be living."

Amelia admired the tranquil splendor of the distant site. Lavender and blue hues swept across the sky, reached down, and melted into the green horizon.

"See all the people?" he asked.

"No."

Too late she realized his question required no answer. She glanced down. The dark depths of his eye held a profound sadness, and the purpose of his question struck her hard with its intensity. She looked back at the majestic land, the scattered trees, the vast emptiness.

"Who will you talk to, Miss Carson?" he asked.

"I'll talk with my husband."

"And when he's not there?"

"Our children."

"I don't know what Dallas told you in his letters, but you're heading into a loneliness so deep that it hurts the heart."

"Only if you let it, Mr. Leigh."

Houston didn't know if he'd ever heard words spoken with so much determination or if he'd ever seen anyone look as serene as Amelia did. The breeze blew wisps of her hair over her face, and her lips curved into a smile.

"I think it's beautiful," she said quietly.

"You have no idea what you're heading toward."

"No, I don't. But I know what I've come from. And I have no desire to return to it." Turning her head slightly, she glanced down at him and gave him a rueful smile. "You were right this morning when you said I didn't want to view the world as you do. You see only the emptiness. I see a place that's waiting to be filled with dreams."