Page 86 of Texas Splendor
“Austin plays the violin and whenever we had occasion to dance, he provided the music.” He glanced at Austin. “I figured you’d be playing tonight.”
“I don’t play anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cameron said. “No one played music the way you did. You should have heard it, Loree. It was beautiful.”
She felt Austin’s gaze boring into her. She slipped her arm from beneath his. “Yes, I should have heard it.”
The strains of the waltz floated around the room. She began to tremble from her head to her toes. “I’m not feeling well. Will you excuse me?”
She didn’t wait for his answer. She didn’t bother to gather up her shoes or her coat. She simply ran. Shouldering her way through the crowd like a mad woman, her heart breaking.
She finally managed to burst through to the lobby. She hurried to the front, shoved open the door, and stumbled into the cold night. Tears stung her eyes. She had told him that she loved him.
And she realized now that she didn’t know anything about him.
The ride home was quiet. Too quiet.
Austin had given their excuses and apologies for having to leave early. Naturally, everyone had wanted to check on Loree and make certain the baby wasn’t planning to come early.
The one time she had met his gaze, he’d seen nothing but hurt in her eyes. He drew the wagon to a halt. Loree shifted on the seat.
“Loree, wait for me to get over there.”
He leapt off the wagon and raced around to the other side. She’d already reached the ground.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself with your stubbornness,” he chastised.
“And you hurt me with your lies.”
“I never lied.”
“You never told me the truth, either.”
She spun on her heel and headed into the house. Austin grabbed their box of presents from the back of the wagon and traipsed in after her. Shafts of moonlight pierced the darkness.
“Will you start a fire in the hearth?” she asked. “I’m cold.”
He set the box on the table, walked to the hearth, and hunkered down. He struck a match to the kindling and watched the flames flare to life. He heard a scrape and bang. He twisted around and watched Loree remove something from the box.
“Your music box is on the bottom,” he told her.
“I’m not looking for the music box.”
Slowly, he unfolded his body. “Loree—”
She spun around, marched to the hearth, and threw something at it.
The sheets of music.
He dropped to his knees, grabbed them from the fire, and beat out the flames that were already greedily devouring the pages. He glared up at Loree. “What did you do that for?”
“You already know how to play the violin. All these months, you let me make a fool out of myself—”
“No, I never meant that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? When I asked you—begged you—to let me teach you, why didn’t you say, ‘I already know how to play, Loree.’ ”
He saw the tears glistening within her eyes. “Loree—”
