Page 19 of Texas Destiny
A horse’s whinny caught her attention. Glancing toward the area where Houston had tethered the mules, she stumbled to a stop.
Houston sat on a log, his left side to her so she was not visible to him. He’d laid a checkerboard on a tree stump. Beside his feet lay his folded duster, his hat on top of it.
He was leaner than she’d expected, and yet his shoulders fanned out as he planted his elbow on his thigh and cupped his chin in his palm. He had rolled up his sleeves, and she could see the strength in his forearm. Before him, his horse snorted.
“You sure?” Houston asked.
The horse bobbed her head.
“All right,” Houston replied and moved a black checker piece across the board. He promptly picked up his own red disk and jumped the black one he’d just moved.
The horse whinnied, dipped her head, and nudged the checkerboard off the tree stump.
“God damn! You’re a sorry loser,” Houston whispered harshly.
Laughing, Amelia approached the duo. In one seamless movement, Houston grabbed his hat, settled it on his head, sprang to his feet, and spun around.
“Thought you were washin’ your clothes,” he said from beneath the shadows of his brim.
She took no offense at his actions, but the sadness swept through her. He trusted his horse, but not her. She fought to keep her feelings from showing on her face as she rubbed the horse’s shoulder. “I was, but it doesn’t take long to wash a blouse.” She eyed him speculatively. “I suppose I should have offered to wash your shirt.”
“That’s not necessary. On a cattle drive, a man gets used to having dirty clothes for a while.”
“But we’re not on a cattle drive. I’ll wash your shirt tomorrow.”
He opened his mouth as though to protest, and then snapped it shut.
Amelia pressed her face against the horse’s neck. “I never mentioned that I think your horse is beautiful. I thought she was brown, but sometimes when the sun hits her coat just right, she looks red.”
“She’s a sorrel. Got speed and endurance bred into her, and she’s smart as a whip.”
She studied the man who was watching the horse with obvious affection. She remembered his description of the horse that had broken Dallas’s leg. “You know a lot about horses.”
“I’m a mustanger. It’s my job to know a horse’s temperament. With mustangs, it’s usually easy. Their coloring gives them away. A dun with a black mane and tail is hardy, an albino is worthless, a black is a good horse unless he has a wavy tail and mane.”
“That’s amazing,” she said quietly, more impressed with how much he’d spoken rather than what he’d said. “Do you raise them?”
“Startin’ to. They used to run wild over Texas, but they’re gettin’ harder to find so I’ve taken to breedin’ ’em.”
She rubbed the horse’s muzzle. “What’s her name?”
“Sorrel.” He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Reckon I got as much imagination as my parents.”
She laughed lightly, delighted with the conversation. Although he still wore his hat, he had relaxed his stance. He appeared to be more at ease with horses than with people. She wondered what would make him comfortable around her, what would have to happen in order for him to leave his hat on the ground. “I play checkers. Probably better than your horse.”
He narrowed his eye. “My horse is pretty good.”
She tilted her chin. “I’m better.”
“You willin’ to put that claim to a test?”
She’d thought he would never ask, but decided against showing too much enthusiasm. She didn’t want to frighten away the easy companionship that was settling in beneath the shade. She simply waltzed to the log where he’d been sitting and tilted up her face, offering the challenge, “Why not?”
He shot across the short space like a bullet fired from a gun, gathered his playing board and pieces, and set them carefully on the tree stump. He playfully shoved Sorrel aside when the horse nudged his shoulder. “This ain’t your game. Get outta here.” Then he dropped down, sitting back on his haunches, and the game began.
Amelia had never seen anyone concentrate so hard on a game. Houston balanced himself on the balls of his feet, his elbow resting on his thigh, his chin in his palm, studying each move she made as though each move were equally important.
She remembered playing checkers with her father before the war. Their games went quickly, and usually ended with both of them laughing, neither of them winning. She was beginning to understand why Houston’s horse had tipped over the board.
