Page 15 of Texas Glory
“It’s gotta be said, Cordelia, for your sake. It’ll go a lot easier on you if you don’t fight him. Just crawl into his bed, lift up your nightgown, and lie as still as you can.”
She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the images his words brought to mind. “I can’t do this,” she whispered hoarsely.
“If you don’t, you’ll kill Father’s dream, and probably him along with it. Is that what you want?”
She opened her eyes. “We’ve moved before. Why not find land that has more water?”
“Goddammit! We thought we had the land and water when we moved here, but that bastard you married stole it from us. Now we have a chance to get it back if you do your duty.”
Her duty. She forced herself to nod and wondered where she would find the strength.
Dallas decided that today was quickly becoming a day in his life that he’d prefer to forget.
Nothing had gone as he’d hoped.
Clutching his arm, his wife spoke only when spoken to. She never offered her opinion on anything, and he couldn’t figure out how to make the fear leave her eyes. Everything he said only seemed to deepen it.
He cursed Boyd McQueen for whatever he had told his sister to terrify her.
She seldom raised her gaze to his, but preferred to stare at a button on his shirt. He’d considered yanking it off, but figured she’d just find another button to stare at. He didn’t think it would be seemly for a man of his position to greet his neighbors with no buttons on his shirt.
People had wandered outside. He could hear their laughter and the drone of their voices as they ambled to the cookhouse he’d built near the bunkhouse.
Plenty of food and drink awaited them on the planked tables inside. Cookie continued to play his fiddle. The half-dozen women who lived in the area were going to wear out their shoes by the end of the evening.
He watched Amelia waltz with Houston, remembering the first time he’d seen her dance. She hadn’t feared him, but then considering the hell she’d gone through to get to him, he didn’t think she’d ever feared anything.
He glanced over at his present wife. She looked more nervous than a cat in a room filled with rocking chairs.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asked. Her gaze darted to him briefly. “No, thank you.”
“Something to drink?”
“No.”
“Well, just standing here is about to drive me crazy. Let me show you around.”
She nodded. “All right.”
Turning away from the people who were dancing, Dallas pointed. “That’s the house.”
Cordelia wondered if perhaps he was teasing her. It had never occurred to her that he would have a sense of humor. She could think of nothing significant to say. “It’s big.”
“I designed it myself. Hired a fella from Austin to come build it for me when Amelia … uh, a few years back.”
He began to walk away before she could respond. She tightened her grip on his arm so she could keep up with his long strides.
“It reminds me of a castle,” she said, searching for anything to distract her from Boyd’s earlier words.
He shortened his strides. “It’s supposed to. When I moved here, there was nothing. I wanted something—” he held out his hands as though he thought the words might appear in them—“something glorious.”
He shifted his gaze away from her as though embarrassed by his words. “That’s the cookhouse.”
He pointed to a small stone building. Smoke, carrying the scent of mesquite, spiraled from the chimney.
“During roundup, the cook takes the chuck wagon out to the men. Other times, he just stays here. They either take something with them or come back in to eat. Cookie brings our meals to the house.”
She remembered the name “Cookie.” He was the gentleman playing the fiddle.
