Page 120 of Texas Glory
“He didn’t know what it would cost him to say them because he didn’t know I’d never be able to give him the son he so desperately wants.”
Sympathy filled Amelia’s eyes. “You love him.”
Tears clogged Cordelia’s throat. “Help me, Amelia. Help me to give him what he wants.”
Amelia sighed with resignation. “You should probably talk with Mr. Thomaston.”
“The lawyer?”
Amelia nodded. “There’s something called a divorce. I don’t know much about how it’s done, but I know a divorced woman is looked down upon, so think hard on this before you do it, Dee.”
She looked back toward the lean-to. Dallas was hunkered down beside Rawley, pointing toward the mare, his mouth moving, instructing, explaining as she knew he’d always wanted to teach his own son. He deserved that opportunity to teach a child who carried his blood.
“I don’t have to think about it,” she said softly.
Standing inside Shawnee’s stall, Rawley noticed the stench first, liked boiled eggs he’d hidden once so he wouldn’t have to eat them. Then the cold of dawn crept over him much as he imagined a skeleton’s bony fingers would feel as they skittered over his neck.
He swallowed what spit he had and crept out of the stall. A barn owl swooped down with a swoosh that nearly stopped Rawley’s heart from beating.
Shadows quivered in the corners. He could see sunlight hovering between the crack where the doors to the barn met.
He smiled. The first light of dawn. Mr. Leigh would be waiting on the back steps—
The pain ripping through his chest caught him unaware as something slammed into him and knocked him to the ground. Someone straddled him and wrapped a large hand around his throat. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t have breathed if he’d needed to … and he needed to. He needed to bad.
A face hovered within inches of his, a face that he’d once known. The face now looked like a wooden puzzle that someone had put together wrong.
Black and white dots fought each other in front of his eyes. The black was winning.
“I’m gonna move my hand away. If you yell, I’ll snap your neck in two,” his pa rasped.
His pa. His insides recoiled at the thought.
The hand moved away. Rawley dragged in a deep breath, swallowing the bile that rose as the stench of his father filled his nostrils.
His pa got off him and pulled him to his feet as though he were little more than Maggie’s rag doll. He slung him against the wall, and Rawley wished he were a doll so he wouldn’t feel the pain fixing to come his way.
“Living fancy, ain’t you, boy?” his pa rasped. Rawley shook his head.
His pa smiled. He didn’t have as many teeth as he’d once had and those that remained were black at the top of his smile. “Well, I’m gonna be living fancy, too, and you’re gonna help me.”
Rawley listened to the words. He wanted to take himself away to that place inside his head where nothing could hurt him.
But he knew if he did … his pa would kill the lady.
The picnic had been Rawley’s idea.
“A way to make you happy,” he’d said shyly, eyes downcast.
Cordelia should have known then that something was wrong, but she was too wrapped up with thoughts of leaving Dallas. Rawley had told her that he knew of a perfect place for a picnic, a place Dallas had shown him.
That should have tipped her off as well. Rawley always referred to Dallas as Mr. Leigh.
In retrospect, she could see that he had given her clues, small hints that something was amiss.
But it wasn’t until they had sat on the quilt to enjoy the food—not until the riders arrived and Rawley’s eyes brimmed with tears and he refused to look at her—that she came to understand the true reason behind his suggestion for a picnic.
Dear Leigh,
