Page 9 of Texas Splendor
“Here. Take it.”
He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers. They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.
“Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth. He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron. He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt the heat suffuse his face. “My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.
She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”
Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistaken that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?
He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.
He saw a flash of dung colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area. “I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”
Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he had mistaken her for a boy. Lightly, her hand held his, but he still felt the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two, but clean. And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.
She peered beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touched her finger to the pink scar that circled his wrist. “What happened here?”
Austin stiffened, his throat knotting, and he wished he’d taken the time to roll down his sleeves after he’d finished chopping the wood. He considered lying, but he’d learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”
She lifted her gaze to his, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring him to answer a question she seemed hesitant to voice aloud.
He swallowed hard. “I spent some time in prison.”
“For what?” she whispered.
“Murder.”
He had expected horror to sweep across her face, would not have blamed her if she had run into the house to fetch her rifle. Instead, she continued to hold his gaze, silently studying him as though she sought some secret long buried. He considered telling her that he hadn’t killed anyone, but he’d learned that the voices of twelve men spoke louder than one. Unfortunately, until he proved someone else had killed Boyd McQueen, he was the man who had.
“How long were you in prison?” she finally asked.
“Five years.”
“That’s not very long for murder.”
“It’s long enough.”
Releasing his hand and his gaze, she eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”
He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed away from the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.
She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.”
The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes, he looked at Austin.
“Digger?” Austin asked.
She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”
“Austin Leigh.”
“I thought that’s where you were headed.”
“It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”
“Must get confusing.”
“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty
