Page 16 of Texas Destiny
“I’m sorry,” she stammered.
He crouched before the fire. “Nothing to apologize for. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day. You’d best get some rest. You can take the lantern into the tent with you. I’ll want to leave at dawn.”
“Shall I wash the plate in that bucket of hot water?”
“Nope. I heated that up for you. Just leave your plate by the log, and I’ll take care of it.”
Picking up the lantern and bucket of water, Amelia began walking toward the tent.
“Miss Carson?”
Stopping, Amelia turned around. He stood beside the fire, the shadows playing over his profile. “Yes, Mr. Leigh.”
“Dallas has a mustache.”
“A mustache?”
“Yeah, one of those big bushy ones. The sides fall down around his mouth. Heard a woman say once that he was handsome as sin.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me. I never imagined him with a mustache. Good night, Mr. Leigh.”
“ ’Night, ma’am.”
She walked into the canvas tent, the tarpaulin he’d used to cover the supplies serving as her floor. She set the lantern on the small table and opened her bag. Gingerly, she brought out a stack of letters. She untied the ribbon and removed the letter from the first envelope. Sitting on the edge of the narrow cot, she tried to conjure up an image of Dallas Leigh as she now knew him to be. Brown eyes. Thick mustache.
April 21, 1875
Dear Miss Carson:
I read in your advertisement that you are seeking a husband. If you are still available, I am seeking a wife.
I am in good health, have all my teeth, and consider myself fairly easy on the eyes. I have land, cattle, and a dream to build a cattle empire the likes of which this great state has never seen.
Please write back if you are not yet married, and I will be pleased to bore you with the details.
Yours,
Dallas Leigh
An honorable man would have looked away. But Houston Leigh had never been an honorable man.
He lay on his pallet beside the fire, the covers drawn over him, his gaze riveted on the tent.
He hadn’t realized until he’d banked the fire and thrown the camp into near darkness that the light from the lantern created shadows inside the tent, shadows visible from the outside.
He could see the woman sitting on the cot reading a letter. Reading with those green eyes of clover that darkened each time she spoke.
She had been reading for some time now. He liked to watch her put one letter away and remove another from the envelope. Her movements were elegant, refined, practiced, as though she often read the letters. He wondered if she was reading the letters Dallas had written her. He wondered exactly what Dallas had told her about his brothers, then he damned himself for caring.
She set the letters on a small table beside the cot, the table that held the lantern. She raised her arms over her head and reached toward the top of the tent.
When she lowered her arms, she began to remove the pins from her hair. He watched as the shadow of her hair tumbled over her shoulders and along her back.
His hands clenched, and he was powerless to look away. She reached into her bag and withdrew her brush. Slowly, she pulled the brush through her hair.
He counted the strokes.
And envied the brush.
