Page 102 of Texas Destiny
“Dallas?”
“He’s fine.”
“Horses?”
“Austin’s been taking care of them.”
“I . . .”
She watched him swallow. “Let me get you some water.”
He nodded slightly. Turning, she took the tin cup Dallas was holding, slipped her hand beneath Houston’s head, and touched the cup to his lips. “Drink slowly,” she ordered although in his weakened state, she didn’t know if he had much of a choice.
When he had drained the cup dry, she set it aside and took his hand.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I can smell you,” he croaked.
She trailed her fingers along his brow. “Austin brought the blankets from my bed.”
“What do you wear that makes you smell so sweet?”
“Magnolias. They grew on our plantation.”
A corner of his mouth crooked up. “Maggie. That’s a good name for a girl. Name your daughter Maggie.” His eye drifted closed.
“I will,” she whispered in a broken voice.
She felt a strong hand with long fingers come to rest on her shoulder. She glanced up at Dallas.Heshifted his hand slightly and squeezed her neck. She rubbed her cheek against his roughened hand. “I think the worst is over,” she said.
“He’ll be weak for a while and probably ornery as a bear. I’m tired of feeling useless. I need to get back to the ranch and take care of business.”
She rose from the bed. “You weren’t useless. I couldn’t have managed without you and Austin.”
He touched her cheek. “I think you would have managed just fine. If you want to stay here until he regains his strength, I’ll come by and check on you from time to time.”
“I’d like to do that, if you don’t mind.”
He brushed his lips across her forehead. “Just get him strong enough to realize those dreams he has. I didn’t even know he had any.”
Houston lay in that damn bed for two long days trying to regain his strength just enough so he could crawl to the table. He wished to God he hadn’t told Amelia that he loved her before he’d jumped off the horse, but at the time he’d figured it was safe to reveal his heart because he didn’t think he had a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving.
He wished to God he’d kept his mouth shut when Amelia shaved him without meeting his gaze and fed him without asking him one goddamn question.
He wished he’d kept the words to himself when she prepared herself for bed each evening in silence. She’d perch her hand mirror against a bowl on the table, separate the strands of her braid, and slowly brush her hair until it glistened in the firelight from the hearth. She’d weave the strands back together, then check the flame in the lantern, and without so much as a “sleep well,” she’d retire for the night … curling up on a pallet on the floor.
He’d watch her in the hours past midnight and listen to her soft, even breathing. He wanted her in his bed, beside him, in his arms.
But he’d given up the right to ever hold her again—forever. Because he’d been afraid. As always, because he’d been afraid.
And now she hated him. Not for the cowardice he’d shown thirteen years before when he’d been a boy, but for the cowardice he’d shown now, as a man.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the weakness in his knees, Houston crawled out of bed and reached for the clothes Amelia had left on the table. He’d slipped into his trousers and was awkwardly buttoning his shirt when she stepped into his house, carrying a bucket of water. She set the bucket down, walked across the room, brushed his hands aside, and buttoned his shirt.
“You ever gonna look at me or talk to me again?” he asked.
“It’s harder now. I wish you hadn’t said what you did before you leapt from the horse.”
“Yeah, so do I, but I didn’t think a man should die without ever having said the words.”
