Chapter Seven

M orning brought with it the glaring sun and harsh reality. Amelia had avoided Houston's gaze as she had eaten her breakfast. When he had begun packing their belongings into the wagon, she'd come to the stream seeking solace.

It had been one thing to meet Houston's gaze by the campfire, with more shadows than light, but when no shadows separated them … she couldn't meet his gaze, knowing what he had seen, what she had seen.

She had issued her challenge last night much as she had often dared her sisters—much as they had dared her—to step beyond the rigid guidelines their parents had set for them. But as imaginative as the dares had been, they had been children's dares, designed to make hearts race and giggles erupt, designed to strengthen a bond.

Last night her heart had raced, but she'd felt no desire to giggle, to laugh, or to smile. No bond existed between her and Houston that could be strengthened.

She stared at the small stream and listened to the gurgling water. She felt soiled, inside more than out. She wished Dallas had come for her. She wished they would reach the ranch today. She wished she'd never seen the firelight skim over Houston's bronzed skin.

She dropped to her backside, removed her shoes and stockings, and wiggled her toes in the cold water. It wasn't enough to wash away the memories of last night, to make her forget how for one insane moment she had envied the firelight.

Lifting her skirt higher, she waded into the stream until the brown water lapped at her calves. Brown like Houston's gaze, Dallas's eyes. Brown like fertile soil.

"Amelia?"

Refusing to acknowledge Houston's presence by turning around, she glared at the trees lining the opposite bank. Anger swelled anew, anger at herself because she liked the way her name sounded coming from his lips, with his deep timbre wrapped around the sounds. She hoped Dallas's voice would carry the same resonance.

"You got any plans to look at me or talk to me today?" he asked.

"Perhaps at nightfall. It's easier with the shadows around us."

"Then I reckon we'll wait here till nightfall."

She clenched her hands. "I thought if I did to you what you had done to me, I would find what you took from me. But trust isn't gained back that easily." She pivoted in the water and tilted her face up slightly.

He wasn't wearing his hat. No shadows kept his gaze from hers. Within the dark depths, she read sorrow, shame, and a profound apology that almost made her weep. "I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

"No need to apologize. It was all my doing. I have a habit of taking the easy road. It was easier to watch than it was to turn away." He settled his hat on his head. "The wagon's loaded. We can leave whenever you're ready."

"Just a few—Oh!" The sharp pain came suddenly, without warning. She stumbled back, falling into the cold water.

Houston thrashed through the water, lifted her into his arms, and carried her out of the stream. "What happened?"

"My leg. Something bit me. A fish or something."

Gingerly he set her on the grassy bank and knelt beside her.

"Close your eyes," he demanded tersely as he tore the hat from his head. "God damn it! Close your eyes!"

He had only sworn at her once—last night—and normally she would have obeyed anyone who yelled at her with such urgency. But she couldn't bring herself to move, to act, to do anything but stare at the two puncture marks in her calf and the blood trailing toward her ankle.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Snake," he replied as he wrapped a strip of leather around her calf before unsheathing the knife he carried at his side. The early-morning sunlight glinted off the steel.

"It's gonna hurt. I'm sorry," he said quietly as he sliced the blade across her calf. She clenched her teeth and balled her hands into fists, wishing she could reassure him, but afraid if she opened her mouth to speak, she'd scream.

He dropped the knife. Wrapping his warm hands around her calf, he lowered his mouth to the wound. His jaws worked feverishly as he sucked and spit. Sucked and spit. Over and over.

She touched her finger to the black patch dangling from her calf and shifted her gaze. No strip of leather indented his brow as he worked. His thick black hair fell over his face, and she had a strong urge to brush it back.

"Am I going to die?" she asked quietly.

He jerked his head up, apparently forgetting or unaware that he wasn't shielding his face from her gaze. Nothing remained of his left eye or cheek. His tangled flesh was stretched taut in places, ridged and heavily scarred in others, as though his ravaged face hadn't quite known how to repair itself. She wanted to weep for the pain he must have endured, for the wounded child he had once been.

"No," he said with conviction. "No, you're not gonna die."

He scooped her into his arms as though she were little more than a bouquet of flowers, freshly picked. She pressed her face against his chest as he carried her in long strides back to the camp. She could hear the pounding of his heart, so hard, so fast that she was certain he was in pain. He set her down near the cold ashes of their campfire. "I'm still bleeding."

"That's all right. Let your leg bleed for a while. I'm going to set the tent back up."

"Why?" she asked, the panic knotting her stomach.

Gently, he cradled her cheek. She felt the slight trembling in his fingers and placed her hand over his. His Adam's apple slowly slid up and down.

"You're gonna get sick," he said, his voice ragged. "Real sick."

"I didn't see a snake," she said, hopefully.

"He left his mark. Probably a water moccasin, maybe a rattler that close to shore."

He withdrew his fingers, and a coldness seeped through her. A shudder racked her body.

He tore off his duster and gently slipped it over her shoulders, tucking it in around her. He pulled his shirt over his head and wadded it up. "Here, lie down."

She curled up on the ground. "I'm tired," she said, her tongue feeling thick. "Didn't sleep well last night."

"You'll sleep today. I'll be back for you."

Before she could reply, he raced to the wagon and began searching through its contents, an urgency to his movements. Her eyelids grew heavy, but she forced them to remain open as she watched him set up the tent beneath the shade of a tree.

His back was lean, tanned, and she wondered if he often worked without a shirt. His muscles reminded her of a stallion's, sleek but powerful, bunching with an easy grace as he worked.

She closed her eyes and the dizziness assaulted her as the blackness swirled around her. Jerking her eyes open, she fought to ignore the throbbing pain in her calf and concentrated instead on the plainness of the patch that usually covered the harshest of Houston's scars. Perhaps she would decorate it with tiny flowers before she gave it back to him.

As she reached for it, to examine it more closely, so did long brown fingers. She watched as Houston removed the strip of leather from her leg and tied it around his head, the patch falling into place to cover his loss.

He wrapped a strip of cloth around her wound. Then he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the tent, gingerly setting her on the cot.

"Do you think you can get out of your wet clothes or do you need me to help?" he asked.

She glanced at her nightgown waiting on her pillow. She nodded lethargically, her tongue struggling to form the words. "I … can."

"Good. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He disappeared before she could say more. Sluggishly, she worked her way out of her clothes, leaving them heaped on the floor. She slipped on her nightgown before curling up on her side and drifting off to sleep, trusting her life to Houston's keeping.

Houston scooped the mud out of the bowl and patted it over the swollen flesh on Amelia's calf, hoping the coolness would reduce the swelling. Damn, he didn't want to have to cut out part of her muscle. He knew the venom could kill the flesh, the muscle, and in rare instances, the victim.

The thought of her dying caused a hard, painful knot to settle deep in his chest. He was certain she had more questions she wanted to ask, discoveries she wanted to make.

He wanted her to see a sunset from the porch of his cabin, with the far off horizon a distant haze. He wanted to learn to answer her questions with patience.

He wanted to watch her daughter grow up.

For some ungodly reason, he thought she'd give Dallas a little girl instead of the son he craved. He imagined a little girl with Amelia's golden hair, her green eyes, and her tiny tipped-up nose, running over Dallas's ranch, wrapping cowhands around her tiny finger. He hoped sometime she'd visit with her Uncle Houston. He'd give her a gentle mare to ride and share his secret place with her where the wildflowers bloomed, the water misted, and the sky was always blue.

And he'd love her. If she was half as sweet as her mother, he'd love her.

He shifted his gaze to Amelia's face. Dear God, but she was pale. He brushed his mud-caked fingers over his trousers until they felt clean, then he gently wiped away the dewy sweat beading above her upper lip.

He wished he'd been able to spare her the sight of his face uncovered. He'd told her to close hereyes, but she hadn't obeyed him, and he hadn't had time to press the issue.

If Dallas had told her to close her eyes, she'd have closed them. His voice carried the mark of authority. If the man said, "Jump!", every other man within earshot would ask, "How high?"

Hell, Houston hadn't been able to make those two ragamuffins at the train depot follow his order to leave him alone. Maybe that was the reason he enjoyed working with horses so much. They listened to him.

Amelia's eyes fluttered open, her green gaze vacant. Damn, he wished the snake had chosen him.

Her lips lifted slightly, and a small spark glinted in her eyes. "No shadow show tonight."

He swallowed hard, wondering how she could tease him when she was feeling so poorly. "You get to feeling better, and I'll give you one," he promised, knowing he'd give her anything, do anything if she just wouldn't die on him.

Her smile withered away like flowers pulled from the earth and left too long without water. Reaching out, she pressed her palm against his left shoulder, her warmth seeping through his flannel shirt. "Did you get this wound at the same time?"

"Yes. I'm sorry you had to see my face—"

She moved her hand up to palm his left jaw. The scars were fewer there, and he could feel the gentleness of her touch.

"The scars suit you," she said quietly.

Yeah, the scars suited him. A man should be as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside.

Self-consciously he wrapped his fingers around her hand and placed it on the cot. She tucked it beneath her chin and drew her legs up as she lay on her side, vulnerable as the day she was born. He brought a blanket up to her shoulders, but it could only protect her from the chill of the evening, not the harshness of life. Offering comfort was as foreign to him as giving an apology. He desperately searched the recesses of his mind for some memory to help him.

An image came to him, so powerful that his hands shook. A time when he'd had nothing but pain, fear, and the overwhelming desire to die. Another memory teased the back of his mind. Small hands, a nurse's hands, rubbing his back, making the pain tolerable with her sweetness. Like most of the young wounded soldiers, he'd entertained the idea of marrying her … until he'd caught sight of his reflection in a mirror.

He placed his hand against the small of Amelia's back and felt her stiffen beneath his fingertips. "I won't hurt you," he reassured her. "Just gonna help you forget."

Awkwardly, he rubbed his splayed fingers over her back. She had such a small back. He wondered if she'd have the strength to bear Dallas the son he wanted … or the daughter Houston thought she would have.

He stroked her shoulders, stopping just short of the nape of her neck. Touching her flesh, absorbing her warmth appealed to him, appealed to him as it shouldn't. He had no right to feel her skin beneath his fingers, even if he was only offering comfort.

"My mother used to rub my back when I was sick," she said quietly, and his fingers faltered.

His thoughts were anything but motherly. "I just thought it might help."

"It does."

His hand continued its slow sojourn over her slender back. Touching her in a less than intimate manner warranted a bit of reverence that could best be appreciated with silence: like watching the rising of a full yellow moon or hearing a wolf calling out to his mate.

"Would you mind reading one of Dallas's letters to me? I always find comfort in his words. They're in my bag." Her mouth curved up. "But I suppose you know that."

He preferred stroking her back to reading, but his desires didn't seem nearly as important as hers. Opening her bag, he removed the bundle of letters. His fingers felt clumsy as they untied the delicate ribbon that held the letters together.

"Take one from the middle," she said. "Any one."

He took the one that looked the most worn, figuring it would be her favorite. He removed the letter from the envelope. "You sure you want me to read it?"

She nodded. He turned up the flame in the lantern and angled the letter so the faint light could home in on his brother's words. He cleared his throat.

April 6, 1876

My dear Miss Carson,

The wind blew through this afternoon, turning the wheel on my windmill for the first time. The wheel groaned and complained as some men are wont to do, but eventually, it worked hard enough to bring up the water. I enjoyed listening to its steady clack. Hopefully, many a night it will serenade my family to sleep.

Loneliness does not exist for me when I am surrounded by the vast expanse of land and the endless possibilities. I think you would find much here to ease your loneliness—the land, the howling wind, the braying of cattle, the sun, the moon, the stars. When I ride out at night alone, 1 find companionship in all that surrounds me. I tell you this because I do not want you to think that loneliness is responsible for the following words.

I believe a wife and sons would enrich my life beyond measure. And I would do all in my power to enrich theirs.

After a year of corresponding, I am convinced you and I are well suited, and I would be honored to have you as my wife. I shall anxiously await your reply.

Yours,

Dallas Leigh

"I said yes," Amelia stated softly.

Houston set the letters aside, picked up the cloth, and wiped her brow. "Yep. Dallas was grinning like a fool for a week after he got your letter."

Her laughter washed over him as gentle as a spring rain. He couldn't recall ever making someone laugh … or causing them happiness. A measure of disquiet swept through him. He didn't want her depending on him for laughter, happiness, or comfort because eventually she'd learn the truth about him: He wasn't a man that a person could depend on.

He knew Dallas had experienced qualms about sending him to fetch his future wife, but he'd had no choice. He wanted to believe Dallas had sent him because he trusted him and had gained a measure of respect for him, but he knew the truth: Dallas had no one else to send.

Her laughter drifted into silence, and she placed her hand on his arm. "You really can be quite charming." Her cheeks flushed, and he wasn't altogether certain it was from the fever. "Dallas will be a good husband, won't he?"

"The best." He dropped the cloth in the bowl of water. "I'll get you some water to drink."

He started to rise. She reached out, wrapping her fingers around his hand. "Thank you for saving my life."

He didn't have the heart to tell her the worst was still to come.

Amelia prayed for death when she thought she was going to live, prayed to live when she thought she was going to die. She prayed while she heaved up her breakfast. She prayed when she had nothing left to heave but her body insisted on trying anyway. She prayed when she was shaking from cold and prayed while she was burning with fever.

She prayed Houston wouldn't leave her. It was the only prayer answered to her satisfaction. He stayed with her throughout her ordeal, lying constantly.

He'd tell her the worst was over when it wasn't so she wouldn't give up. He'd tell her the chills were a good sign, then he'd say the fever was good. Using a cool cloth, he'd wipe the sweat from her brow, cheeks, and throat, all the while saying she would be all right in his deep voice.

She decided that she loved that voice, even when it was lying. It had a soothing, calming quality about it. She imagined the horses responded well to it. She wanted to live long enough to watch him train a horse, her horse, the horse he'd promised her when she'd felt certain she would die.

She watched him now as he gently washed the mud from her calf. His brow didn't furrow as deeply at the sight of the discolored and slightly swollen flesh as it had when he had examined it before. She wondered if anyone had cared for him this tenderly when he had been injured. She couldn't imagine with all the war casualties that anyone would have found time for a fifteen-year-old boy so badly wounded. She was surprised he'd come through his ordeal.

But he had survived, and she was determined not to let a little snake claim her life.

"Did your father take care of you when you were hurt?" she asked.

He visibly stiffened. He so hated talking about the war, and yet it was such a part of his past and Dallas's. How could she understand the men she would live with if she didn't understand their history?

"Our pa was dead by then. Dallas saw after me.

"Dallas seems to have a habit of taking care of people."

"He has a knack for it. He'd have taken better care of you than I have."

"I can't imagine how he could have," she said as she placed her hand over his. His eye was red rimmed, his face haggard. "You need to sleep," she said.

"I will as soon as your fever breaks."

"When will that be?"

"Soon."

Soon could be any moment, any day. Soon could be when death came.

"Tell me something nice," she said. "Something nice about the place where we're going."

He touched the damp cloth to her throat. "Flowers. You'll see beautiful flowers come spring: blue, red, yellow. Not as pretty as what you sew, but pretty just the same."

"What else?"

"There's nothing to block your view of the sunset. You can just watch it sweep across the land, making you feel so small."

"I am small."

He lifted a corner of his mouth. "Yeah, you are small."

Smiling softly, she touched the corner of his mouth. "A smile. I thought I'd die without ever seeing you smile."

"You're not gonna die."

She lifted a brow. "Dallas will have your hide if I do."

Leaning low, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Damn right, he will."

"Can't let that happen," she said as she drifted off to sleep.

He had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen. She'd never noticed before, but as he slept with his face pressed to the cot near her hip, she could clearly see the length and thickness of his lashes. His hair—black as a midnight sky with no stars—curled over his ear, rested against his chin. He needed to shave.

Staring at his profile, she no longer tried to imagine how he might have looked if he'd never been wounded, but she found herself mourning what he might have had. A life that included a wife and children. A smile that would have warmed many a woman's heart. A laugh that would have rung out strong and true.

She'd never heard him laugh, had only seen a ghost of a smile. He wasn't hers to care about, but she did care. She wanted to hear him laugh. She wanted him to smile without feeling self-conscious. He had fought to give her back her life. Giving him a smile was a small payment.

She combed her fingers through the thick strands of his hair. It was coarser than hers, as though the wind and sun had battled against it.

He awakened with a jolt. "Your fever broke."

She smiled softly. "I know. You were sleeping."

He sat up and stretched his shoulders back. "How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"You'll be weak for a couple of days."

"Have you ever been bitten by a snake?"

"Nope, but it happens now and then to men on the trail."

"Do you take care of the men then?"

"Nope. The cook usually does the doctoring. Think you could eat a little something?"

"I'll try. Are we going to travel today?"

"Nah, we'll let you rest for a couple of days."

"Won't Dallas worry if we're not there on time?"

"I don't think he'll start to worry unless we're not there within a month."

Houston carried her outside during the day to enjoy the sun and carried her back into the tent at night to sleep. He'd taken to sleeping on his pallet, his saddle placed so he was watching the tent. Under the circumstances, he didn't think she'd mind. She wasn't giving any shadow shows.

On the morning of the third day after her fever broke, he awoke, his gaze fixed on the tent. With the early light of dawn filtering through the leaves and dancing over the canvas, he couldn't see any shadows or movements within the tent, but he could envision Amelia clearly, lying on the cot, sleeping soundly. In the past two days, she'd slept more than she'd been awake.

He thought they'd be able to travel today. He supposed he should get up and wake her, but he liked the thought of letting her sleep, letting her wake up on her own, stretching, washing her face, brushing her hair. He would be able to see none of the movements, but knowing they would take place almost made him smile.

She was sweet, so incredibly sweet.

He threw off the blanket, scrambled to his knees, rested his hands on his thighs, and continued to look at the tent. He'd make her some coffee before he woke her. Thicken it with sugar just the way she liked it. He'd warm up some water for her.

He turned and froze. She was sitting on a log, her hands pressed between her knees.

"Good morning," she said softly.

"You're awake," he croaked, grimacing for telling her something she obviously knew.

She smiled, and he lost the ability to draw air into his lungs.

"I wanted to see a Texas sunrise. It was beautiful."

He sank to his backside, fighting off the urge to tell her that she was more beautiful than any sunrise he'd ever seen. Her braided hair was draped over one shoulder, her face pink from an early-morning scrubbing, her green eyes bright with appreciation. He thought he'd never again be able to look at the sun easing over the horizon without thinking of her, just so, enjoying the start of a new day. To him, a day was just something to be gotten through.

"I guess when you think you're going to die, you start to appreciate things a little more. What was the first thing you wanted to see after you were wounded?" she asked.

"My ma." He grabbed his hat and settled it into place. He'd never told anyone that. He'd wanted his ma so badly that he'd felt like a baby.

"But she was too far away to come to you."

Her eyes held so much understanding that he couldn't stop himself from dredging up the memories. "Yeah, she was too far away, and she had Austin to care for, so even if she'd known I'd been hurt, she wouldn't have been able to come."

"You didn't tell her you were hurt?"

He shook his head. "Dallas said knowing would just make her worry. After the war ended, we headed home. When we got there, it was so quiet. You could feel in your bones that something wasn't right …"

His voice trailed off into the dawn.

"What wasn't right?" she asked, gently prodding him to continue.

Houston shifted his backside over the hard ground. Physical comfort eluded him as easily as peace of mind. He'd never discussed that day with anyone, not even Dallas. Sometimes, he felt a strong need to discuss it with Austin, to see if he remembered, but if Austin held no memories of that time, he didn't want to give him any. "We found our ma in her bed. She'd been dead for some time. I was glad then that Dallas hadn't written her about me, that we hadn't give her more cause to worry."

"Do you know how your mother died?" she asked.

"Figured she'd taken the fever. Our pa wasn't one to make friends so no one checked at the farm while we were gone. We don't know how Austin managed to survive. He was like a wild animal when we found him."

"Those are the memories you think Austin has of the war?"

"I've got no idea what memories he has. If he doesn't have any, I don't want to give him mine."

"So you never talk about it."

"Nope." He stood and rubbed his hands along his thighs. "If you're feeling strong enough, we'll head out this morning."

She smiled then, a smile that made his heart ache, a smile that made him wish that, in his youth, he'd traveled a different path.