Page 29 of Texas Destiny
And he’d love her. If she was half as sweet as her mother, he’d love her.
He shifted his gaze to Amelia’s face. Dear God, but she was pale. He brushed his mud-caked fingers over his trousers until they felt clean, then he gently wiped away the dewy sweat beading above her upper lip.
He wished he’d been able to spare her the sight of his face uncovered. He’d told her to close hereyes, but she hadn’t obeyed him, and he hadn’t had time to press the issue.
If Dallas had told her to close her eyes, she’d have closed them. His voice carried the mark of authority. If the man said, “Jump!”, every other man within earshot would ask, “How high?”
Hell, Houston hadn’t been able to make those two ragamuffins at the train depot follow his order to leave him alone. Maybe that was the reason he enjoyed working with horses so much. They listened to him.
Amelia’s eyes fluttered open, her green gaze vacant. Damn, he wished the snake had chosen him.
Her lips lifted slightly, and a small spark glinted in her eyes. “No shadow show tonight.”
He swallowed hard, wondering how she could tease him when she was feeling so poorly. “You get to feeling better, and I’ll give you one,” he promised, knowing he’d give her anything, do anything if she just wouldn’t die on him.
Her smile withered away like flowers pulled from the earth and left too long without water. Reaching out, she pressed her palm against his left shoulder, her warmth seeping through his flannel shirt. “Did you get this wound at the same time?”
“Yes. I’m sorry you had to see my face—”
She moved her hand up to palm his left jaw. The scars were fewer there, and he could feel the gentleness of her touch.
“The scars suit you,” she said quietly.
Yeah, the scars suited him. A man should be as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside.
Self-consciously he wrapped his fingers around her hand and placed it on the cot. She tucked it beneath her chin and drew her legs up as she lay on her side, vulnerable as the day she was born. He brought a blanket up to her shoulders, but it could only protect her from the chill of the evening, not the harshness of life. Offering comfort was as foreign tohimas giving an apology. He desperately searched the recesses of his mind for some memory to help him.
An image came to him, so powerful that his hands shook. A time when he’d had nothing but pain, fear, and the overwhelming desire to die. Another memory teased the back of his mind. Small hands, a nurse’s hands, rubbing his back, making the pain tolerable with her sweetness. Like most of the young wounded soldiers, he’d entertained the idea of marrying her … until he’d caught sight of his reflection in a mirror.
He placed his hand against the small of Amelia’s back and felt her stiffen beneath his fingertips. “I won’t hurt you,” he reassured her. “Just gonna help you forget.”
Awkwardly, he rubbed his splayed fingers over her back. She had such a small back. He wondered if she’d have the strength to bear Dallas the son he wanted … or the daughter Houston thought she would have.
He stroked her shoulders, stopping just short of the nape of her neck. Touching her flesh, absorbing her warmth appealed to him, appealed to him as it shouldn’t. He had no right to feel her skin beneath his fingers, even if he was only offering comfort.
“My mother used to rub my back when I was sick,” she said quietly, and his fingers faltered.
His thoughts were anything but motherly. “I just thought it might help.”
“It does.”
His hand continued its slow sojourn over her slender back. Touching her in a less than intimate manner warranted a bit of reverence that could best be appreciated with silence: like watching the rising of a full yellow moon or hearing a wolf calling out to his mate.
“Would you mind reading one of Dallas’s letters to me? I always find comfort in his words. They’re in my bag.” Her mouth curved up. “But I suppose you know that.”
He preferred stroking her back to reading, but his desires didn’t seem nearly as important as hers. Opening her bag, he removed the bundle of letters. His fingers felt clumsy as they untied the delicate ribbon that held the letters together.
“Take one from the middle,” she said. “Any one.”
He took the one that looked the most worn, figuring it would be her favorite. He removed the letter from the envelope. “You sure you want me to read it?”
She nodded. He turned up the flame in the lantern and angled the letter so the faint light could home in on his brother’s words. He cleared his throat.
April 6, 1876
My dear Miss Carson,
The wind blew through this afternoon, turning the wheel on my windmill for the first time. The wheel groaned and complained as some men are wont to do, but eventually, it worked hard enough to bring up the water. I enjoyed listening to its steady clack. Hopefully, many a night it will serenade my family to sleep.
