Chapter Eight

A s the wagon rumbled over the uneven ground, Amelia clung tenaciously to the seat. She was regaining her strength with each passing day, and with each passing mile, she grew closer to Houston.

She knew she shouldn't have these feelings. She knew she couldn't have these feelings. She had signed a contract stating she would travel west to marry Dallas. She didn't think he was a man prone to breaking contracts or dismissing them. She had been wallowing in the depths of despair, her world closing in on her, her options dwindling when she'd received his letter of hope. She owed him for lifting her out of the mire into which the war had dropped her, for altering her destiny.

She read his letters each night before she went to sleep, trying to hold an image of the man within her heart, but it was Houston she heard whimper in the hours past midnight, it was Houston she would sneak out of the tent to watch sleeping.

He never seemed truly at rest. As he slept, beads of sweat would coat his face and neck. He would begin to breathe hard as though he were running a great distance.

She told him she awoke early to appreciate the sunrise, but the truth was she enjoyed those moments before dawn when the sun's feathery fingers would touch his face and his breathing would calm as though in sleep he recognized that he'd survived another night.

Amelia spotted the small log cabin near dusk. Her heart tripped over itself when she saw the few cattle grazing in the fields beyond. "Are we already at Dallas's ranch?" she asked.

"Nope. Just stopping to look in on some of Dallas's neighbors."

"So we're close."

"Nope. Out here, anyone you pass along the way is considered a neighbor." He pulled the wagon to a halt between the house and a weathered barn.

A tall gangly man holding a rifle stepped out of the house. He cupped a hand over his brow and squinted against the setting sun. "Houston, that you?"

"Yep, Dallas told me to stop by." Houston climbed off the wagon and held his arms up to Amelia.

She scooted over the bench as the man ambled over.

"You got you a woman there?" the man asked.

Houston wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her to the ground. "Yep. Miss Carson is betrothed to Dallas. He busted his leg. Sent me to fetch her."

A wide grin split the man's face. "Well, I'll be. She a heart-and-hand woman?"

"Yep."

"Dallas sure got himself a pretty one, didn't he?"

"Reckon he did," Houston said quietly. "Miss Carson, this here's John Denton."

Smiling, Amelia brushed her hand over her dusty skirt and toyed with the brim of Austin's hat. At the moment she imagined she looked anything but pretty.

"Beth, we got company!" John hollered.

A young, dark-haired woman rushed onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. A little girl, with a rag doll draped over her arm, clutched the woman's skirt and peered around her. "Land sake's, company. John, don't just stand there. Invite them in for supper."

Amelia glanced at Houston. He gave her a brusque nod. "I'll see to the animals' needs, then I'll join you."

John trailed after Houston as he led the mules to a trough. Amelia strolled to the house.

The woman's smile grew brighter. "I'm Beth." She rested her hand on the child's dark head. "This is Sarah. She's four years old and into everything."

Amelia knelt before the child. She had her father's blue eyes, her mother's dark hair. "Hello, Sarah. I'm Amelia."

Sarah held out her doll. "This is Mary Margaret."

Amelia touched the doll's cloth arm. "She's very pretty, just like you."

Sarah pressed her face against her mother's skirt and giggled.

"You'll have to forgive her shyness. We don't get much company out here."

Amelia rose to her feet. "I guess that's something I'm going to have to get used to."

"I never expected Houston to take a wife."

"Actually, I'm going to marry Dallas."

Beth's eyes widened. "Dallas? Have you met him?"

Amelia shook her head. Beth slapped her hand over her breast. "Handsome as sin." She eyed Amelia speculatively. "Are you a heart-and-hand woman?"

"I just heard Houston say I was, so I guess I am, although I'm not sure what that is."

Beth slipped her arm through Amelia's and led her into the house. "A mail-order bride. Cowboys call us heart-and-hand women because most place their orders from The Heart and Hand. That's where John found me. Our little house might not look like much, but what I have here is a hundred times better than what I had before."

The furniture looked as though it had all been carefully crafted. The fire crackled in the hearth. The room smelled of freshly baked bread and cinnamon.

Beth reached into a cabinet and brought out wooden bowls, setting them at the square oak table. She picked up Sarah and plopped her into a chair that was taller than the others. "John made all the furniture."

"It's lovely."

"He works hard, trying to keep me happy. I imagine Dallas will do the same for you."

"I only know Dallas through correspondence. I was hoping to learn more about him as we traveled, but Houston isn't very talkative."

Beth looked at her, complete understanding reflected in her eyes. "Oh, Amelia, none of the men out here are. They won't ask you for the time of day. They figure if you want to share that information, you'll take out your pocket watch and tell them."

"Why do you think they are like that?"

Beth brought a pot from the hearth and began to ladle stew into the bowls. "I think it's because a lot of the men came here after the war to start over. Or they had a past they weren't particularly proud of. A lot of them change their names, or just go by their first names. No one questions them. That's why they come out here. If they want to be alone, they're left alone."

"And if they don't want to be alone?"

Beth smiled. "Then they order themselves a bride." She placed the pot on the table and returned to the hearth, bringing back a black pan that held something that reminded Amelia of a yellow cake.

"Corn dodgers and stew," Beth explained. "It's not fancy, but it's filling and out here the men need something that fills up their bellies." She looked past Amelia and pointed a finger. "Keep that dust out there where it belongs!"

John and Houston stomped their feet on the porch for a minute before walking in and taking their seats. Amelia sat beside Sarah, across from Houston, who had angled his chair so he sat with the scarred side of his face away from the table.

When Beth took her chair, everyone bowed their heads.

"Dear Lord," John began, "thank you for bringing company to take the burden of talking off me for a day or so. Amen."

Grinning, he looked up at Beth. She wagged a finger at him. "You were listening at the door."

"No, missus, but I've been married to you long enough to know poor Miss Carson here is gonna get her ear chewed off afore the evening's over."

"Please, call me Amelia."

He blushed before digging into his stew.

Beth placed her hand over Amelia's and squeezed. "You'll have to forgive me," she said. "As much as I've come to love John, I miss a woman's voice from time to time."

Amelia cast a furtive glance Houston's way. He watched her in seeming innocence, but she wondered if Dallas had indeed told him to stop by here or if he was just trying to bring home his point regarding the absence of company in this part of Texas.

"I think you're delightful," Amelia said with all sincerity. "And I know what it is to long for a gentle voice."

Amelia received a good dose of what Houston endured each evening as Beth fired off questions, one after another. She wanted to know about life back East, the journey on the train, and how fashions had changed. She talked about everything but the weather. John commented from time to time, but Houston held his silence on all matters.

When John's bowl was empty, he leaned back in his chair and asked a question only Houston could answer. "How many head of cattle does Dallas have now?"

Houston glanced up from his stew as though he hadn't noticed that the majority of the previous conversation had not included him. He had asked no questions, prompted no replies, and caused no soft chuckles. "Around two thousand."

John released a low whistle. "Have him send word if he needs some help getting 'em to market. I could bring Beth to the ranch and she and Amelia here could visit."

"I'll let him know."

"John, why don't you drag out the bundle board? We'll let Amelia and Houston sleep in the bed tonight. You and I can sleep in the loft."

Amelia's heart slammed against her ribs. She thought the intimacy surrounding her and Houston as they sat beside a campfire would pale in comparison to the intimacy that would surround them if they slept in the same room, the same bed, beneath the same covers.

John cleared his throat. "I'm not sure that would be proper, Beth. Usually, we pull the bundle board out when the two people are engaged."

"Don't be silly. Dallas trusts Houston, or he wouldn't have sent him to get Amelia. And she must trust him, or she wouldn't be traveling with him. Nothing will happen in that bedroom that couldn't happen on the trail."

John shrugged. "I reckon you got a point there."

"I appreciate the kindness, but I'll sleep in the barn," Houston said.

"Nonsense," Beth said, slapping her hand on the table for emphasis. "When was the last time you slept in a bed?"

Houston looked as though he'd been trapped which Amelia realized he had been. He couldn't even claim to have slept in a bed while they were in Fort Worth.

"A while, but I'm used to sleeping on the ground."

"Then tonight you will sleep in a bed, and we'll prepare you each a bath. A good hot meal, a hot bath, and a soft bed. I would have sold my soul for those when I was traveling out here. It warms my heart to be able to offer them to you."

Amelia met Houston's gaze, and she knew he wanted an honorable way out of the situation, knew she should help him find one. But he had made one sacrifice after another for her on this trip. Surely Dallas would find no fault with her for making this one sacrifice for Houston.

"I truly appreciate your generosity, Beth," she said quietly. "I would love to have a hot bath."

Beth slapped her hand on the table in front of her daughter. "Sarah, stop staring. It's not polite."

Amelia glanced down at the little girl. She bowed her head, but Amelia could see that her gaze was still trained on Houston.

Houston shoved his bowl back. "It was a fine meal, ma'am. If you'll excuse me, I need to check on the mules." He scraped the chair across the floor, stood, and headed out the door.

Beth sighed. "That's such a shame he had to get wounded like that, but I imagine Dallas sleeps better at night."

"What do you mean?" Amelia asked.

"It's not unusual for a mail-order bride to meet someone along the way and never make it to the man who sent for her. Imagine Dallas figured that wouldn't happen if he made Houston come after you. You're not going to fall in love with him."

Houston crossed his forearms over the fence railing. Sorrel snorted and nudged his elbow.

"No apples." He scratched behind the horse's ear. Most cowboys wouldn't be caught dead riding a she-horse, but Houston had discovered he could approach a herd of wild mustangs with more success when he rode a mare. Although wary of a strange horse, a stallion was more likely to accept a female into his domain. He'd viciously fight another stallion. "You'd best get some sleep, old friend. I sure as hell won't get any tonight."

The horse nudged Houston's elbow again and when no apple was forthcoming, she trotted away, leaving Houston to enjoy the solitude he craved.

He knew it wasn't uncommon for people to offer their bed to visitors, even when the travelers weren't married. The lack of towns and hotels had resulted in a code of hospitality across the plains that Houston couldn't help but admire. Still, he wasn't certain that Dallas would appreciate his neighbors' generosity. He could only hope that his brother would understand that Beth couldn't have spoken truer words: Nothing was going to happen in that bed. Nothing at all. Hell, he probably wouldn't even be able to sleep.

Houston felt someone watching him, the gaze more of a tickle than a stare. He glanced down. Big blue eyes looked up at him. Incredibly innocent. He wished he could give the little girl a smile, but he knew no matter how hard he tried that the left side of his face wouldn't cooperate, and he'd end up giving her something distorted and uglier than what she was looking at now, something that might frighten her.

"I got a hurt," she said. She lifted her skirt until her white bloomers came into view along with her scraped knee. "My ma kissed it and made it better." She released her skirt and pointed her finger. "You got a hurt."

"Yeah, reckon I do." Right in the center of his heart.

She scrunched up her face. "I can kiss it and make it better."

Something inside his chest grew so tight that he thought he might not be able to breathe. She crooked her little finger and wiggled it at him. "Come here."

Holding on to the railing for support, he bent his knees, squatting until he was as close to her height as he could get. Her eyes grew large and serious. She puckered her tiny lips, bobbed her head forward, then ran off. The brush of her mouth against his cheek had been as faint as the first breath of dawn. Deep inside, he smiled.

Standing a few feet away and slightly behind his left side, Amelia knew that his hampered vision prevented him from seeing her. She also realized with awe that he was smiling. Not on the outside where it would show, but within a secret place where he harbored his fears and his doubts, where she imagined a fifteen-year-old boy mourned the loss of his youth.

She knew that she was wrong to watch him without his knowledge, but she wanted to understand him as much as she needed to understand Dallas. With Dallas, she would have an advantage. She was certain he would talk with her and ask her questions. His brother would hold his hurts, his longings, his dreams close to his heart where no one could share them.

She turned and walked back to the house, where her bath waited. She hadn't seen Houston's smile, but it hovered around him, like a whispered sigh, sweet and unexpected.

Houston sank into the steaming hot water and released a slow, appreciative breath. Beth had draped blankets over the back porch railing to give him a measure of privacy. He could feel the cool night air moving in. In the distance, he could see orange and lavender sweeping across the sky.

A man couldn't ask for much more than that.

He closed his eye. Amelia had been in the water before him. Although Beth had added more hot water to the tub after Amelia got out, if he concentrated hard enough, he imagined he could smell her sweet scent. Her scent had to be that of a flower, but it wasn't any flower he knew. He imagined her tiny feet resting against the bottom of the wooden tub where his were now. He imagined the lye soap skimming over her body, touching her before it touched him. It seemed such an intimate image, to have the same water, soap, and air caressing both their bodies.

His mouth went as dry as the West Texas breeze. He was sitting in a tub of water, dying of thirst. He opened his eye. The cake of soap slipped out of his hands, spiraled through the air, hit the porch, and skidded toward the dirt.

Amelia bent down and picked it up.

"What are you doing out here?" he croaked.

She straightened and leaned against the porch railing, her gaze holding his. "I've never seen you enjoy anything."

"I was enjoying the bath."

"I know." She smiled so sweetly that he wondered if his thoughts had been visible. He held out his hand. "I need the soap and some privacy."

She handed him the soap and held up a cup brimming with shaving lather. "The beard doesn't suit you."

He rubbed his hand over his rough jaw. "I'll shave it, then."

"I'd be happy to shave it for you."

"I can do it."

She gnawed on her lower lip. "I'm very experienced at shaving a man's face. I shaved Mr. Bryant every morning."

Amelia watched the expressions flitting over his face, and she knew that he wanted to ask, but as always, with rare exception, he held his silence.

She walked forward and knelt beside the tub, her courage faltering as he plunged his hands under the murky water, splashing her with his frantic efforts.

"Woman, I'm not wearing any clothes!"

She'd seen him without clothes, but she saw no reason to remind him of that fact. He'd argue that the circumstances had been different, and she'd have no choice but to agree. Although she had no intentions of dropping her gaze below his bare shoulders, she jerked a blanket off the porch railing and draped it over the tub. "I can't see anything but your face and shoulders now. I'd like very much to shave you. It's such a small thing, a way to thank you for caring for me while I was sick."

He glanced around the porch.

"Beth and Sarah have already gone to bed. John's closing the barn."

Watching his throat muscles work, she would have sworn he was terrified. "I won't hurt you," she assured him, smiling softly. "I just want to help you forget."

"You're using my words," he grumbled.

"They're easy to remember. You don't say very many."

"You're aggravating, you know that?"

She smiled warmly at his disgruntled expression and began to swish the brush in the cup, hoping to put them both at ease before night fell, and they found themselves together in the same bed.

"My father owned a plantation before the war." She had his undivided attention as she brushed the lather over his face and along his throat. "We had slaves, cotton fields, a big house. I had two sisters. No brothers. I was the youngest. Papa's favorite. I was quite pudgy and he used to call me his little pumpkin."

He furrowed his brow. "Can't imagine you pudgy."

"War changes people."

His brow relaxed. "Yeah, I reckon it does."

She set the lather cup down and slipped the razor out of her pocket, giving him time to ask a question, but no question came.

Placing her finger beneath his chin, she tilted his head back. "I told you that Papa died. It was just before the war ended. Mama said he took the fever, but I think he just grieved for the South he loved, the South that was disappearing. My sisters died shortly after he did. Then it was just Mama and me."

She took a moment to enjoy the sound of the razor scraping over his unmarred jaw. "Mr. Bryant came from the north and paid the taxes on the plantation. He let me and Mama stay on to serve him. We moved to the slave quarters."

His jaw dropped. She pushed it back up. "You need to keep still so I don't cut you."

"He shouldn't have done that."

She shrugged. "I'm just grateful he didn't make us sleep in the fields or turn us out completely. When he planted cotton, we picked it."

"Me and Dallas used to pick cotton when we were young."

She sat back on her heels. "You did?"

He nodded. "I didn't mind it so much, but Dallas hated it. Swore when he got old enough, he'd find himself a job that didn't involve plowing fields or picking crops. Reckon that's why he likes cattle."

She stood and walked to the other side.

"I can finish shaving," he said, reaching for the razor.

She batted his hand away. "I can do it." Carefully, she began to shave the area below the patch, to work her way around his scars. "Anyway, eventually, Mr. Bryant let Mama work in the house. When she died, I took over her chores. I tended to his needs when he got too feeble to take care of himself. He was such a proud man. In the end, I grew rather fond of him, even though he was a Yankee."

She angled her head to study Houston's face. "Shall I leave the whiskers above your lip so you can grow a mustache?"

"If you want. A man with a face like mine doesn't put much stock in how he looks."

But he did care, she realized, thinking back to the day she'd met him. He'd been clean shaven then. The morning they were to leave, he'd bathed and shaved. And he'd brought along his shaving equipment and a tiny mirror so he could keep up his appearance as they traveled. If he had wanted a mustache, he would have grown one without her suggesting it. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "No, I think a mustache would hide your mouth, and you have such a nice-looking mouth."

In the fading light, she could see the blush creep over his face. Gingerly, she shaved over his lip. A shiver shimmied up her spine when his breath fanned her knuckles.

She wiped the remnants of lather away and trailed her fingers along his smooth jaw, across his chin, and up his cheek until her palm cradled the side of his face, her fingertips resting lightly against the patch. It pleased her that he didn't grab her wrist and pull her hand away. "Does it still hurt?"

She watched as he swallowed. "Sometimes … when a Norther blows through, it'll ache."

Her gaze drifted back to his lips. They looked incredibly soft and out of place on a face as rugged as his. She lifted her eyes and discovered that he was studying her mouth as well. Self-consciously, she licked her lips.

His gaze slowly roamed over her features until they settled on her eyes. "It'll be dark soon. You'd best get inside. All manner of animals come out at night."

Withdrawing her hand from his cheek, she rose. "I set some towels by the fire to warm. The breeze can be quite chilling when you're wet. I'll get them for you."

As calmly as she could, her stomach quivering, she strolled away, knowing that she shouldn't have enjoyed shaving Houston as much as she had, knowing that she shouldn't wonder if his lips were as soft and warm as they appeared. She made a silent vow that on the morning following her wedding, she'd shave Dallas.

Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her sleeping companion. She'd put on a clean blouse and skirt that she'd brought from Georgia. She couldn't quite bring herself to sleep in her nightgown. She heard a soft tapping and rose to her feet. "Come in."

The door opened, and Houston peered into the room. "You ready for me to come inside?"

She nodded. With one long stride, he was in the room, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.

"You want the door closed?" he asked.

She nodded again, not certain her voice had come into the room with her.

He set his saddlebags near the door and glanced around the room, looking at everything but Amelia and the bed. Finally, he released a long, slow breath and met her gaze. "I figure we got two choices here. I can either sneak out the window and sneak back in at dawn, or I can sleep on the floor."

"Or you can sleep in the bed."

His gaze darted over to the bed.

"I think it would hurt Beth's feelings if she somehow discovered that you hadn't slept in the bed."

"Yeah, well, right now I'm more concerned with your feelings."

"Are you?"

He swept his gaze over to her. "Yes."

"Well, right now, I'm tired and would love to sleep in a bed. If we keep our clothes on, with the bundle board between us, I see no problem with us sharing the bed."

A corner of his mouth crooked up. "You don't think I could crawl over that?"

She angled her chin. "I don't think you would crawl over it."

He met her challenge gracefully. "All right. Which side do you want?"

"I'll take this side next to the table."

He walked across the room and sat on the side of the bed nearest the window. The rope bed creaked beneath his weight. "Can I take off my boots?"

"And your hat and your coat."

Amelia took a last glance around the room. Beth's clothes hung in a wardrobe with no doors. Her wardrobe contained fewer clothes than Amelia's new wardrobe, but Beth possessed something Amelia didn't.

"Oh, isn't this beautiful?" she asked in a quiet voice of reverence as she crossed the room and touched her fingers to the finely detailed white lace covering the silk gown.

"White's not very practical," Houston said. "It'd be showing all the dirt before the morning was half over."

"A woman would only wear it once."

"Seems like a waste of money then."

"I suppose, but I guess you're paying for all the memories it would hold." "Memories?"

"Yes," she replied, glancing over her shoulder at the man sitting on the bed, wondering briefly if men held onto memories as women did. "A woman would wear it on her wedding day."

He furrowed his brow. "What are you gonna wear when you marry Dallas?"

She shrugged and walked to the bed. "Something that we purchased in Fort Worth, I imagine."

"You should have told me you needed something special."

She sat on the bed with her back to him and removed her shoes. "I don't need something special." She quickly slipped beneath the covers and rolled to her side, her back against the bundle board.

The bed shifted as he stretched out on the other side of the board.

"Do you mind if I keep the lamp burning?" she asked.

"Don't mind at all."

"Will it keep you awake?"

"No. I always sleep with a light burning."

Amelia rolled to her back. "You do?"

"Yep. The light from a campfire or the lamp beside my bed."

The gruffness of his voice stated more clearly than his words that it had cost him dearly to admit that, to reveal a part of himself that she imagined no one else knew. She hugged herself, hoarding the information he'd shared with her. "Is Dallas's house like this one?"

"Nope."

"What does it look like?"

He took a long moment to answer. "It's big."

"Is it pretty?"

"Dallas thinks so."

"But you don't think so."

He heaved a deep sigh. "I don't think you can really appreciate it until you've seen it."

"Do you live there?"

"No, I got my own place about an hour's ride away."

"Is it big?" she asked.

"No. It's smaller than this place. Just one room, but it suits me."

Amelia drew the covers up to her chin and watched the shadows play over the wall as the flame inside the lamp quivered. She could well imagine Houston in a one-room house, tending his horses during the day and watching the stars at night.

"Good night," she said softly, rolling over to her side.

"Amelia?"

"Yes?"

"If you hear that animal cry out like you did some time back . . just ignore it."

She had suspected all along that it was his cry she had heard, but the sound hadn't been that of an animal; rather the wail of someone who was lost.

"Sometimes, I cry out at night, too," she said softly.

He didn't reply. She didn't really expect him to. She allowed the silence to ease in around her. She closed her eyes. The light from the lantern danced across her eyelids, comforting her with its presence. The bed shifted.

"Amelia?"

Rolling over, she came up on her elbow, only to find Houston had done the same. Their gazes locked, his only slightly higher than hers. She stilled, her breath held. She watched his Adam's apple slowly slide up and down.

"I … uh … I wanted to thank you for the shave. I've never felt anything so fine in my whole life."

"It was my pleasure. I … I'm going to shave Dallas after we're married," she felt compelled to add.

He gave a brusque nod. "He'll like that. ‘Night."

"Good night." She snuggled beneath the covers, trying to forget the feel of Houston's jaw cradled within her palm. Once she had tried to imagine what his smile might look like. Now she wondered how his mouth would look poised for a kiss.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She had done nothing wrong. She'd simply shaved her fiance's brother as a way to repay him for his kindness … but her reasoning did little to ease her guilt.