Lorraine Heath (26 page)

“Then I’ll do that.” He held out his hand.

Amelia slipped her hand into Dallas’s, and Houston felt as though a herd of mustangs had stampeded over his heart.

When the couple closed the door behind them, Houston sank to the bed.

“You sure you’re feeling all right?” Austin asked.

“Yeah.”

Austin scraped the chair across the floor, turned it, and straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. “I owe you an apology for Black Thunder.”

“We’ve already discussed this. We’ll get a new stallion in the spring.”

Austin shook his head. “You must not have taken a good look at those horses in the canyon, the ones those horse thieves had.”

“No, I was only thinking about Amelia and getting her out of there.”

“Black Thunder was there. Dallas brought him back. I put him in his pen.”

Houston rubbed his shoulder, the ache intensifying. “What do you mean he was there and now he’s here? You shot him.”

“Nope, I lied.”

Houston stared at his brother, wondering when he’d stopped being a boy. Austin swallowed.

‘The thieves took me by surprise and stole Black Thunder. I was ashamed that I didn’t try and stop them. It didn’t matter that there was six of them and only one of me or that they had their guns out and I didn’t. I thought I’d let you down. Figured you’d never trust me again if you knew what had happened. So I lied. And because I lied, you got shot.”

“I didn’t get shot because you lied—”

“If I’d told the truth, you would have gone after them. They never would have taken Amelia.”

“We don’t know that. You can’t start second-guessing what might have happened.”

“Dallas said the same thing, but I needed to hear it from you.”

“Well, now you’ve heard it, so take Black Thunder and head on back to the ranch.”

“Take Black Thunder?”

“Yep, he’s yours. I’d like to borrow him from time to time, of course, but he belongs to you.”

“Why?”

Houston leaned forward. “Because I don’t want you spending the rest of your life thinking I blame you for what happened. It wasn’t your fault.”

Austin laughed. “You don’t have to give me the horse. Dallas told me that a man who wallows in his regrets lives a miserable life. I got a dream that I want to hold in my hand. I ain’t planning on doing any wallowing.”

“Take the horse, anyway.”

Austin stood. “All right, I will.” He walked to the door and stopped, his hand on the latch. He gazed back over his shoulder. “That woman you love … Do I know her?”

Houston forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze. The boy only knew one woman, if he didn’t count the whores in Dusty Flats. “Yeah, you do.”

“She never left your side, not for one minute.”

“She should have.”

“Well, I’m not learned in these matters, but I’d like to think if a woman ever loved me as much as that one loves you … I’d crawl through hell to be by her side.”

H
ouston sat at his table, running his fingers back and forth over the cloth Amelia had embroidered for Dallas, a gift he’d kept for himself.

He’d tried to sleep after Austin left, but Amelia was still here with him. He could smell her sweet magnolia scent filling his house, filling his bed.

He wondered how long it would be before her fragrance faded, before he became like Cookie, living on memories until they became so worn with the years that they would be discarded carelessly as hand-me-downs. Houston had already spent thirteen years wallowing in the regrets of his youth. He had a lifetime ahead of him to flounder in his latest regrets.

Whether intentional or not, she’d left her mirror on the table, glass side down.

He could see her so clearly, holding the mirror, smiling at her reflection. How simple an action, how difficult a step after all these years. The rippling waters of a pond always gave a distorted image with no depth, no clarity.

A mirror would give a clearer reflection and if he looked deeply enough, it would drag him back into the past. If he looked long enough, perhaps it would set him free.

Houston’s mouth grew dry as his gaze shifted between the mirror and the flowers she had sewn with delicate stitches and pink thread.

With a trembling hand, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the mirror, lifted it from the table, and held it before him.

In the fading evening light, Amelia stood on the balcony and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Somewhere, out there, where the wind blew free and wild mustangs surrendered their freedom, lived a man with the heart of a fifteen-year-old boy.

How in God’s name had Houston’s mother allowed her husband to take her sons off to war? How did any woman let her son go off to war, regardless of his age?

The war had claimed so many boys, even those it hadn’t killed. She wondered how differently her journey with Houston might have ended if he hadn’t marched onto a field of battle before he’d ever shaved.

The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled as the cool breeze rushed past. She heard a small hushed movement and turned to see Dallas leaning against the wall, studying her, his gaze intense, penetrating.

He needed only one step to span the distance separating them. He touched his knuckles to her cheek, and she couldn’t stop herself from stiffening. His hand fell to his side. “I’ve never forced a woman. I’m not going to start with my wife.”

Reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his and shook her head slightly. “You won’t have to force me.”

He eased closer until only a whisper’s breath separated their bodies. “Do you love Houston?”

“I’m your wife.”

“I know whose wife you are. I’m asking if you love Houston.”

The tears flooded her eyes. She squeezed them shut, battling the river of sorrow. “Once.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze.

“Why did you marry me?”

She took a deep breath. “I had nothing in Georgia. No home, no family. You offered me a chance to have a home, a family, and a dream.”

“In other words, I asked and Houston didn’t.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “You asked. He didn’t.”

He held out his arms. With quiet acceptance, she laid her head against his chest as he enfolded her in his strong embrace. She cared for him. She liked him. Perhaps, in time, her heart would flutter when he neared, her skin would tingle when he touched her, and her toes would curl when he kissed her.

He slipped his finger beneath her chin, tilted her face, and brushed his lips over hers before lifting her into his arms and carrying her into their bedroom.

Dallas’s warm mouth settled over hers as she sank into the bed. His kiss was … nice. His hand cradled her breast. Nice. He groaned and laid his body over hers. Lean, strong … nice.

The door burst open and banged against the wall. Dallas came off her like a fired bullet. He grabbed his revolver out of the holster dangling from the bedpost and put himself between her and the door, his breathing heavy. “What is it?”

Amelia scooted back against the headboard, pressing her hand above her beating heart, her breath catching in her throat.

She peered around Dallas. Houston stood in the doorway, his legs spread wide. He stared at his brother. “I need to talk to you.”

Dallas slipped his gun back into his holster and wrapped his hand around the bedpost, his knuckles turning white as he faced his brother. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No.” Houston’s gaze shot to Amelia, then back to Dallas. “No, it can’t.”

Dallas tunneled his fingers through his hair and glanced at Amelia. “Will you excuse me?”

She could do little more than nod.

Dallas stood before the window in his office, the whiskey he’d poured himself forgotten as he watched the woman standing beside the corral Austin had made the men rebuild. Dallas had known she’d slip out of the house and go to the corral. He wondered how long it would be before he knew her as well as Houston did. The palomino approached, nudged her arm, and she pressed her face against the mare’s neck.

He could hear Houston pacing behind him. For a man who had wanted to talk so desperately, he’d suddenly grown eerily quiet.

Dallas turned and, for the first time in years, didn’t flinch when he met his brother’s gaze. “You should sit down before you fall down.”

Houston brought his pacing to a halt and held onto the back of a chair. “I can stand.”

“You wanted to talk?”

Houston nodded, his fingers tightening their hold on the leather. “I’m in love with Amelia.”

“And when did you decide this?”

“It just came over me somewhere between Fort Worth and here.”

Dallas strode across the room and threw his glass of whiskey into the hearth. The shattering glass did nothing to improve his mood. “Then we’ve got ourselves one hell of a situation here.” He spun around. “Why in God’s name didn’t you say something before we were married?”

“Because I thought she deserved better than a coward.”

Dallas felt as though Houston had just punched him in the gut. “What?”

“She’s got more courage in her little finger than I’ve got in my whole body. I figured she deserved someone who didn’t run from his own shadow.”

“What are you talking about?”

Houston surged across the room and slapped his hands on the desk. “What? After all these years, you want me to say to your face what you know in your heart? I’m a coward. A worthless, no-account excuse for a man. You know it, I know it. That’s why you can’t stomach the sight of me. If I could undo what I did, I would. But I can’t. God knows I try every night when I go to sleep, reliving that day, wishing I’d followed like I should have, but when I wake up the past remains as it was.”

“You sound like Pa.”

Houston dropped into the chair, closed his eye, and rubbed his brow. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for killing him. Hell, I haven’t forgiven myself.”

“You think I hold you accountable for Pa’s death?”

Houston lifted his despair-filled gaze. “Figured that was why you couldn’t stand to look at me. Because you knew I’d killed him. If I’d had any backbone, I’d have struck out on my own, spared you the sight of me—”

“Oh, Jesus.” Dallas sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, dear Lord.” Then he threw his head back and laughed, a dry humorless laugh. “I thought you avoided me because you regretted what I’d done.”

“What in the hell did you do?”

“I played God.”

The night following a battle was always the worst. The cries of wounded men echoed through the darkness, the stench of blood thickened the air.

Dallas stepped over a corpse and knelt beside a young soldier who was holding nothing but the torso of his best friend. “Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked at him blankly. “Can’t find his legs. He’d a hated bein’ buried without his legs.”

“I’ll help you look for his legs after I find Houston. You seen him?”

Jimmy wiped a bloody hand over his tear streaked face before pointing his finger. “They’re putting the dead over yonder.”

Stacking them like cords of wood, one body on top of the other. Dallas had found his pa there, but he couldn’t think about that now, had to ignore the pain knifing through his heart.

“Houston’s not there.”

“Did you check the hospital tent?”

“Yep, he wasn’t there, either.”

Jimmy pointed a finger. “They left the dying over there.”

Dallas’s stomach tightened, and his jaw tingled. Lord, he wanted to throw up, but not here, not in front of a soldier. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We’ll whip them Yankees tomorrow.”

He struggled to his feet and wove his way among the dead who had yet to be moved, until the moaning hovering around him grew louder. So many men lay in the clearing. He might have never found Houston if he hadn’t spotted the battered drum.

He knelt beside his brother. Houston was a bloody mess, lying so still, so pale even in the moonlight. Dallas worked the drum away from his brother and threw it with all his strength and pent-up anger into the nearby brush. He slipped his arms beneath Houston’s still form and struggled to his feet. He ignored the cries of men wanting water, wanting help as he wended his way toward the hospital tent.

No light burned inside. Using his shoulder, he nudged the tent flap back. The moonlight spilled inside. He judged the distance to the table, walked inside, and laid his brother on the table in the darkness as the tent flap fell back into place.

Houston made no sound. Dallas went outside and quickly returned carrying a lantern. He hung it on a beam and studied his brother in its golden haze. Houston’s breathing was shallow, his bloodied chest barely rising as he took in air. The anger swelled within Dallas, and he stormed out of the tent.

He raced across the compound, and without ceremony, barged into a physician’s tent. “Dr. Barnes, I got a man that needs tending.” He shook the sleeping man. “I got a man that needs tending!”

The doctor opened his eyes and released a weary sigh. He was still dressed, blood splattered over his clothes. Sitting up, he dropped his feet to the ground. “Where is he?”

“In the hospital tent. We need to hurry.”

Dr. Barnes rubbed his face before rising to his feet. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t walk fast enough to suit Dallas, but at least he was coming. Dallas threw back the tent flap and hurried to his brother’s side. Houston hadn’t moved, but he was still breathing. Dr. Barnes moved around to the other side of the table.

“Dear God.”

“I need you to fix him,” Dallas said.

Dr. Barnes lifted his weary gaze. “Son, he’s better off dead.”

“I gave him my word I wouldn’t let him die.”

Dr. Barnes shook his head, regret filling his eyes. “I’ve spent my time saving men with facial wounds like this, only to have them kill themselves once they’re strong enough. Those that don’t kill themselves end up living alone, not wanting people to see them.” He placed his hand on Houston’s brow. “I won’t be doing him a favor if I tend his other wounds. My time would be better spent sleeping so I’ll have the strength to save those worth saving tomorrow.”

Dallas pulled his revolver from its holster.