Page 20 of Texas Destiny
“My father taught me to play checkers,” she said. “If I thought I was going to lose, I’d move the pieces when he wasn’t looking. He always pretended not to notice.”
“You say that like you loved him.”
“Of course I loved him. Very much. He was my father. Didn’t you love your father?”
“Not particularly.”
She sensed from the tightening of his jaw that he might have regretted voicing his feelings.
“Your move,” he grumbled.
She promptly removed another one of his pieces from the board and settled in for the long wait as he contemplated his strategy. With his thumb, he tipped his hat off his brow. His attention clearly focused on the game, she was certain he didn’t realize that he’d allowed the shadows to slip away from his face. She welcomed the opportunity to view more than his profile. The black patch was larger than many she’d seen. She supposed that he wanted to leave as few scars visible as he could. Her fingers flexed, and just as she had when she had first met him, she felt an overwhelming desire to touch the unsightly scars with compassion. She imagined holding him to her breast, easing the pain that still lingered within his remaining eye.
An unexpected warmth suffused her as though she’d wandered too close to a roaring blaze. She balled her hands into tight fists to stop her fingers from trembling, from reaching toward a face that fascinated her with the history it revealed. Houston’s marred features left no doubt that he’d fought in the war. She wondered if Dallas’s countenance revealed as much.
“Was Dallas wounded during the war?” she asked.
Houston tugged on the brim of his hat, bringing the shadows home. “Nope.”
She chastised herself, wondering if she’d ever remember how quickly talk of the war distanced Houston. Although he sat across from her, she sensed that he was retreating. She wanted desperately to keep him near.
“Does Dallas play?” she asked, grateful to see the stiffness roll out of Houston’s shoulders as he leaned forward.
“With all he has goin’, I don’t imagine he has time.”
“Don’t the two of you ever play?”
He reached toward a piece, then pulled back his hand without touching or moving the disk. “No.”
He scrutinized the board with such intensity that Amelia wished she had planned to lose. With a sigh, he moved a piece forward, placing it so she had no choice but to jump over and claim it. She was certain he intended to forfeit his piece in order to gain two of hers, but she didn’t think it would be enough of a sacrifice for him to win. She somehow knew that her winning would also be her loss.
She slipped her fingers beneath the board and quickly tossed it off the stump.
“What the—” He glared at her with obvious displeasure.
Amelia smiled sheepishly. “I thought I might lose.”
“You knew darn good and well that you weren’t gonna lose.”
He reached for the board, and Amelia wrapped her fingers around his arm. He stilled, the muscles beneath her fingers tensing. “It was only a game. You’re supposed to have fun when you’re playing a game.”
“I was havin’ fun,” he said gruffly.
“You were?”
He nodded, but the muscles beneath her hand didn’t relax.
“Then let’s play again.” She settled into place while he set up the game. She allowed him to have five moves before she dumped the board over.
“Dang it!” he roared.
“You weren’t having fun,” she said.
“I sure as heck was. I was gonna win that time.”
She smiled sweetly. “No, you weren’t.”
“You’re aggravating, you know that?” he said as he collected his board and pieces.
