Page 12 of Texas Splendor
He struggled out of his soaked trousers, discarding them on the floor. Ignoring the towel, he crawled into the bed, drew the blankets up to his waist, and rolled onto his stomach. The next few minutes were going to be unpleasant, but at least he’d be in the company of a pretty lady.
A soft tap sounded against the door before it opened a crack. “Are you in bed?” she asked quietly.
He forced the word past his thick tongue. “Yep.”
She walked into the room and set the bowl and a knife on the bedside table. Frowning, she eased onto the bed and touched his cheek. “You didn’t dry yourself.”
He thought about telling her he was lucky to have made it to the bed, but he didn’t think it was worth the effort. She reached for the towel and gently patted the moisture from his face, the furrows in her brow deepening. The towel kept catching on the stubble covering his jaw, and he wished he’d taken the time to shave that morning. She leaned closer, the soft swell of her small breast pressing against his shoulder as she wrapped the towel around strands of his hair and squeezed out the rain. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her sweet scent and was reminded of the blue-flower-coated hills he’d been traveling.
Her touch was gentle, careful as though she thought she might hurt him. How many times in the past five years had he thought of Becky touching him like this? When he’d longed for a hot bath that he knew was years away, he’d think of taking it with her, drying her off afterward, standing still as she dried him. Then they would make love until dawn, slowly, leisurely, the way they should have done it the first time.
He opened his eyes, the burning behind them increasing, and he feared it had little to do with his fever. Tenderly, the woman touched his cheek, the concern in her eyes drawing the words from his ravaged heart. “Why didn’t she wait?”
She leaned closer until he saw the black rings that circled the gold of her eyes. “Who?”
“Becky. She promised to wait till I got out of prison … but she married Cameron.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing she’d left the rain on his face so his tears would have a place to hide.
Loree had never seen a man cry. She didn’t think this man usually gave in to tears. His fever, his pain were lowering walls she would have preferred remain in place. The woman inside her who would never know so deep a love ached for this man, and she found herself wishing that a woman she knew nothing about had waited for him.
He buried his face in the pillow. “Just do what you gotta do and be done with it,” he croaked.
She wondered if he realized she had taken the time to dry his face and hair so she could put off the unpleasant task that awaited her. She didn’t relish the thought of cutting into his flesh. She allowed her gaze to roam the length of his bare back. A few scars indicated he was no stranger to pain. She wondered what he had done to deserve the beating, if the woman who had abandoned him knew all that he had suffered.
Her gaze came to an abrupt halt where the sheet met his narrow hips. She swallowed hard. Beneath the sheet was nothing but flesh. She grabbed a quilt and draped it over the outline of his legs and buttocks, as though doing so would clothe him. She pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. “I’ll be as gentle as I can. I know it’s going to hurt, but try not to move.”
He bunched his fists around the pillow, the corded muscles of his back tightening. Taking a deep breath of fortitude, she picked up the knife and pricked his wound. He flinched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered repeatedly as she lanced the long gash. Then she took the cloth she had left to soak in the hot salt water and applied it to the injury.
She heard his breath hiss between his teeth. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. My brother’s scrapes and cuts were forever festering. He’d holler so loud when Ma cleaned them. At least you don’t holler.”
She knew she was rambling, trying to distract herself from the task as much as him from the pain. His muscles were firm, and she knew he had worked hard in his life. But even with all the work, he managed to have the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen. Although his fingers were bunched in the sheets, she remembered noticing how long they were when she’d watched him eat earlier.
She couldn’t imagine that such handsome hands had killed. Instead she imagined them stroking the strings of a violin. Her father had possessed long fingers and with them he had created the most magical music.
No, a killer should not have beautiful hands. They should be ugly, like hers, with short stubby fingers, stained and roughened.
And a killer should not possess deep blue eyes that filled with tears.
After repeatedly applying the hot wet cloth to the wound, she brought the lamp nearer and scrutinized the gash. It still looked red and tender, but it was clean. “I think that’s all I need to do tonight.”
He released a shuddering breath and his hands relaxed their hold on the pillow. Turning his head slightly, he looked at her. “Sorry for the trouble.”
She didn’t know if she’d ever heard anyone sound so tired. She combed her fingers through his black hair. “Try and sleep. We want your fever to break.”
She draped additional blankets over his arms and a portion of his back, leaving the wound exposed to the air. Slowly, gently she trailed her hand back and forth over his broad shoulders, above the wound. She began to sing the ballad that had caused her father to desert and brought him home from the war, while so many others had perished. He had named her in honor of the song, and she often wondered if she owed her existence to someone’s gift with lyrics.
She sang until she felt the tenseness leave Austin’s body, until she heard his quiet even breathing. She moved to a rocking chair and watched him through the night, wiping the beading sweat from his brow, keeping the blankets tucked around him, wondering what sort of man would go to prison for murder … then weep because a woman hadn’t waited for his return.
Chapter 3
Loree hadn’t meant to pry. She’d retrieved Austin Leigh’s saddlebags with the intent of discovering if he had other clothes to wear. Her search stopped the moment she found his treasured keepsake. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the tub of steaming water, she stroked the locks of auburn hair he had bound together with a white velveteen ribbon. She had little doubt the silken strands had once belonged to his beloved Becky. When she held them up to the early morning sunlight filtering through the window, they turned a warm shade of red, unlike her own hair, which held no color at all.
She reasoned that he had possessed the precious memento before he went to prison. She could not envision him requesting the hair of a woman who had married another. When she brought the hair beneath her nose, she smelled the fading fragrance of vanilla mingling with a scent that she recognized as belonging to the man lying in her bed. After tending him through the night, she had become familiar with many aspects of his person.
She wondered how long he had possessed the token of his heart’s desire and marveled at so great a love that even now he would not part with a portion of the woman who had betrayed him.
“What are you doing?”
Loree released a tiny screech at the rumble of the angry voice and shoved the lock of hair back into the saddlebag before glancing over her shoulder. Austin Leigh had risen up on an elbow, his blue penetrating gaze pinning her to the spot.
