Page 143 of Texas Glory
“Changed your mind about me, did you?”
Lifting its head, the dog released a small whine before settling back into place. Austin was sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep. Instead, he looked toward the horizon, where the sun was gradually sinking behind the trees. While serving his time, he’d hated to see the sun go down. He had hated the night. Loneliness had always accompanied the darkness.
“Here’s your meal,” the boy said from behind him.
Austin glanced over his shoulder, his outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination. The air backing up in his lungs, he slowly brought himself to his feet. The crumpled hat and shabby jacket were gone. So was the boy. The britches and bare feet were the same, but everything else had changed.
“What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asked.
Austin could have named a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinched the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat they glittered a tawny gold.
He tore his hat from his head and backed up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”
A tentative smile played across lips that reminded him of the first strawberry in spring, so sweet a man’s mouth watered before he ever had the pleasure of tasting it.
“It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides, there’s usually no one around to notice.”
“What about your family?”
A wealth of sadness plunged into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.
” So they were “around,” as she’d told him, but not in a position to help her. She extended the bowl toward him.
“Here. Take it.”
He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers. They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.
“Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth. He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron. He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt heat suffuse his face. “My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.
She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”
Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistook that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?
He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.
He saw a flash of dung-colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area.
“I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”
Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he could have mistaken her for a boy. Her hand held his lightly, but he still felt the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two but clean. And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.
She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her fingers to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”
Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”
She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.
He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”
“For what?” she whispered.
“Murder.”
He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have been surprised had she run into the house for her rifle. Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, studying him as though she sought some secret long buried.
“How long were you in prison?” she finally asked. “Five years.”
“That’s not very long for murder.” “It’s long enough.”
