Sunrise Over Texas

By MJ Fredrick

Texas Frontier, 1826

Kit Barclay followed her husband into the wilds of Texas only to be widowed. Stranded with her mother- and sister-in-law to care for, with no hope of rescue before winter sets in, Kit has only one goal: survival. So when a lone horseman appears on the horizon, and then falls from his mount in fever, Kit must weigh the safety of her family against offering aid and shelter to the handsome stranger.

Trace Watson has lost everything that ever mattered to him. Trying to forget, he heads to the frontier colony of San Felipe, not caring if he lives or dies. But when he wakes to discover he’s being nursed back to health by a brave young widow, he vows to repay her kindness by guiding the three women back to civilization, no matter what the cost.

Soon, Kit and Trace are fighting the elements, Indian attacks and outlaws—as well as feelings they both thought were long buried…

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Dedication

To Michael, for making me proud of my Texas heritage; to Joe, for taking me on my research road trip without a word of complaint; and to Mom, who always stands behind me.

Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

The Texas Frontier, 1826

“Kit!”

Katherine Barclay straightened from stirring the laundry in the iron pot. She swept loose tendrils of hair back from her face and schooled her features into patience before she turned to her sixteen-year-old sister-in-law. Mary ran into the yard of the garrison, not wearing a wrap to protect her from the winds sweeping across the coastal plains. The young woman was recovering from a fever and didn’t have the sense to cover her head on this frosty Texas day?

But Mary revered Kit, and while that admiration frequently tried Kit’s patience, she had to remain conscious of it. There was no living with the girl if Kit hurt her feelings.

“What is it?” Kit asked, at the same time Mary blurted, “A man is riding this way!”

Kit’s heart thumped. Could it be John? Had the word they’d received of his death on the Texas border been a mistake?

She tamped down that hope as she’d trained herself to do. Fear rose in its place. Only she, Mary and her mother-in-law, Agnes, remained at the garrison standing guard between the Karankawa tribe and Stephen Austin’s colony of San Felipe. The other inhabitants had fled. John had urged Kit to accompany him on his mission back to the States, but their young son, Daniel, had been sick. She’d feared traveling would make him worse. Agnes and Mary had agreed to stay with her, a fact she’d been grateful for when she received word that her husband had been killed in a skirmish with outlaws, and when she’d buried her son a week later.

Before regret could squeeze her heart, she closed the door on it. She couldn’t dwell on the past now. She was in charge. As much as she loved Agnes and Mary, they were too frail for this frontier life. And now their safety was threatened.

She released the stirring stick she’d been gripping and flexed her cold, aching fingers. “Where is this man?”

“He’s coming from the northeast. We saw him through the window.”

Another transgression. They shouldn’t have had the window set in the fort wall open, not when the January wind had such a bite. The last thing Kit needed was to bury her sister-in-law if she caught another fever. Kit stepped away from the laundry fire and snatched her wrap from the chair nearby. She folded the woolen fabric around herself as she headed for the steps leading to the top of the wooden cabin that sat just inside the fort wall.

“Stay here,” she ordered over her shoulder as Mary began to follow.

The command did no good, and the young woman trotted behind her up the steps.

Wind whipped at Kit’s already wild hair and tore through her thin cloak and damp dress. The low gray clouds offered no hope of sun. She buried her hands in the folds of her cloak and scanned the flat horizon.

There, astride a beautiful roan, slumped a man in a saddle, heading straight toward the garrison.

Alarm shot through her as she realized she’d left her loaded rifle beside the chair where her cloak had been. She cursed her lack of foresight. She hadn’t expected him to be so close.

She whirled to run for the rifle when a movement from the man caught her eye. She turned back just in time to see him drop out of the saddle and remain motionless on the road.

Drunk, was her first thought. Or hurt. Or sick.

She stiffened. No more sickness. She couldn’t bear expending her energy on someone else she couldn’t help.

She stared at the man, so still in the golden dry grass, his horse standing patiently beside him, and gnawed her lip in indecision.

Mary gripped her arm, huddling against Kit for warmth. “What are we going to do? Just leave him out there?”

What could she do? Bring him into the fort not knowing who he was, what his purpose was? They were three women with little means of protecting themselves against someone who meant them harm. And if he was indeed sick, could she risk the three of them contracting his illness?

But could she just leave him out there to die? Then what? Watch carrion destroy his body? Hardly a Christian act.

Confused and tired of making all these decisions, she crossed the yard and closed her fingers around the reassuring metal of the rifle barrel. With the gun in one hand, she tucked her arm around Mary’s shoulders. The girl shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. Kit removed her own wrap and folded it about the girl. “The first thing we’re doing is getting you warm before you sicken again.”

That would also buy her time to think.

Agnes waited in the doorway of the garrison commander’s quarters, the rooms they had claimed for themselves when they realized no one would return to the fort this winter. The older woman hurried forward to gather her daughter, but her worried eyes sought Kit.

“Did you see him? He’s fallen.”

“I saw.” Kit ushered the women into the room and closed the door. Immediately, she felt warmer, but she moved to stand by the hearth anyway, arms wrapped around her middle.

Agnes peered out the window, past the parchment paper covering it. “What are we going to do?”

“Has he moved?”

Agnes shook her head. “He could be dead.”

He could be. And that left the beautiful horse, a horse they could use. If he was sick or drunk, he was hardly a threat.

Decision made, Kit reached into the box over the fireplace and drew out the pistol John had left her. Her fingers flexed when she opened the box, as the memory of how he’d taught her to shoot it stabbed through her heart.

Before he’d brought her to this place from her home near New Orleans, he wanted her to be able to defend herself. So he took her to an open field with this pistol and the rifle still in the yard. He’d taught her how to load each, his big, sure hands guiding hers through the motions. He’d shown her how to sight down the barrel, his arms around her, his strong chest at her back, his muscled arms along hers. She could still feel the heat of his breath against the back of her neck, the way his fingers curved around hers, his soft chuckle as she flinched at the sound. He hadn’t allowed her to back down, hadn’t allowed her to quit until she could load each gun in under two minutes.

Then, when her arms had trembled from lifting the heavy rifle, he’d taken her home and made love to her.

Tears swam in her eyes. She missed him so much. It wasn’t right that she should lose them both, her husband and her son, so she had nothing left.

“Kit?” Mary rested a hesitant hand on Kit’s arm.

Kit drew in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and blinking back the tears she didn’t have time to shed. She set the box on the table and tucked the heavy pistol into the pocket of her dress.

“You’re going out there?” Agnes’s strident voice rang in the small room. “What if it’s a trap? If he’s just using illness as a ruse to get in here?”

“He has no way of knowing we’re the only three here. That’s why I fire the cannon every day, so anyone around will think the soldiers are still here.”

“We barely have enough food for ourselves,” Agnes pointed out.

That was true, and their supply was dwindling. Kit herself had only taken a small amount of porridge this morning in an attempt to make their supplies stretch. What would they do when they ran out of the oats and wheat flour they had stored in the root cellar? They’d already used the dried meat and root vegetables she’d stored. Her skills with the rifle weren’t nearly good enough to hunt, even if she were brave enough to leave the fort. She had to hope that what they had would last until spring, when they could leave this place. At least it would be warmer, and there would be more opportunities to find food. And maybe the Indians would be on the move, away from them, following the game.

“His horse looks healthy enough.” She met Agnes’s gaze.

“Riding him would be dangerous,” Mary asserted.

“We can butcher him,” Kit said softly, though the words pained her to say.

Mary gasped, her brown eyes opening wide.

Kit clamped her jaw and ignored the outrage. She had to. She strode through the door and tried to shut it behind her, but as usual, Mary was there, still in Kit’s wrap. Kit would need that to venture out of the fort, though the heavy cloth would limit her mobility. She picked up her loaded rifle by the barrel, pivoted and returned to the window, where Agnes watched the stranger, her body vibrating with anxiety.

Kit raised that anxiety by thrusting the rifle at the older woman. “If he makes any sudden movements when I’m out there, shoot this.”

Agnes raised her hands, palms out, and stared at the gun in horror. “I can’t shoot a man.”

Kit bit back a sigh of frustration. “You don’t have to shoot him. Just make him think you are. He doesn’t know who is in here, remember? Please, Mother. I need your help.” The last words, words she rarely spoke, dragged out of her.

Agnes must have realized what the plea cost Kit, because she pursed her lips, lowered her hands and reached for the rifle.

After a quick review of the weapon, Kit retrieved her wrap from her terrified sister-in-law and marched out of the room, hesitating only a moment at the fort’s giant wooden doors, which she hadn’t opened in weeks. Not allowing herself to think of what would happen to her family if she died out there, she tugged one door open wide enough to slip out.

The stranger was farther from the walls than she had realized. Every step away from the fort made her feel more vulnerable to Indians and outlaws. She reassured herself by remembering they hadn’t seen any of the Karankawa tribe in a week or more—the days blended together—and by pressing her hand to the gun resting heavily against her thigh in her skirt pocket. Though the land was open for miles, every brush of high grass against her skirt sent a chill of alarm through her.

She expected the horse to react to her approach, but he merely lifted his head and widened his nostrils. Her gaze returned to the man sprawled face down in the dirt, one arm pinned beneath his big body, one long leg curled out, the other straight behind him. His hat had tumbled off into the grass, revealing dark hair with a touch of red.

He was breathing. She could see the rise and fall of his back beneath the wool coat, could see the dance of dust in front of his mouth with every exhalation.

He was young, younger than John had been, close to her own age, his face long and lean and bristled with reddish stubble, his cheeks ruddy. His full lips were chapped. She knew before she reached him that he was feverish.

But he was alive. What was she to do now?

Praying for strength, keeping one hand in her skirt pocket, she edged closer. The horse shifted and she made a soothing sound, though her attention was all on the man. Even if she wanted to take him inside, how? He was so big. She couldn’t lift him.

She crouched beside him, reached a shaky hand to touch his back. He radiated heat even through his jacket. He would die if she left him out here. His death would be her fault. Bad enough she hadn’t saved her child. She couldn’t have this man’s death on her head.

“Mister.” She nudged his shoulder—broad, hard, muscled. Strong enough to snap her or Mary or Agnes in two. She murmured a prayer that she was doing the right thing, that she wasn’t putting her family in danger. Already her mind raced to determine how to keep Agnes and Mary safe. She could put this man in the second lieutenant’s quarters at the other end of the fort and not allow Mary or Agnes near him. He would never even know they were there. And if she could devise a way to make him think other men were around, even better.

The wind whipped through her wrap and dress, bringing her back to the first problem—how to get him back to the fort.

“Mister.” She nudged again.

He groaned, stirring, his long-fingered hand curling in the dirt.

In pain.

“Mister, can you get back on your horse?”

His eyelashes fluttered, but his eyes remained closed, as if opening them took too much effort. His lips moved, and she bent closer to hear the word he rasped on an expelled breath.

“Water.”

Oh, dear. She hadn’t thought to bring any, hadn’t thought he would need any, not the way he’d dropped to the ground. “If you can climb back on your horse, I can get you some water. But I can’t lift you.”

His eyes did flutter open then, golden-brown eyes, but they didn’t focus on her.

“Where is Atrius?”

She glanced around, fear rising again, constricting her breathing. “You’re alone.” Please, God, let him be alone.

He shifted, freeing his trapped hand. “My horse.”

“Right here. Right beside you. All you have to do is get to your feet.”

He braced his hands beneath his shoulders and pushed himself up on trembling arms. She thought he’d drop to the dirt again, and she hovered, ready to shore him up, but he managed to ease his weight back on his knees, his hands still in the dirt. He closed his eyes again, that small movement draining his strength.

Lord, they would never get him into the garrison at this rate. Her skin crawled with the fear that they were being watched. A sick man and a woman were prime targets for the Indians and bandits that roamed the area. Every fiber of her being screamed to return to the safety of the fort, but she couldn’t leave this man out here to die.

“Mister, please.” Desperation had her pushing at his ribs, trying to urge him upright.

“Give me…a minute.”

She swallowed her anxiety and scanned the flat, treeless area again. Nothing except for the wind waving the tall grass, which could hide anything—movement, scent, sound.

With excruciating slowness, the man grasped the stirrup and dragged himself upright, onto his knees, but couldn’t raise himself to his feet to get into the saddle. His horse stood patiently, head lowered, as if he’d done this before.

Finally, Kit could bear it no longer. Desperate to return to the safety of the fort, she crouched to duck under one arm, wrapping her arms around his chest to lift him. He was so warm she wanted both to snatch away her hands and to burrow deeper. He smelled musky, as though he hadn’t bathed in a while, and of illness, but not of drink, thank God. “Lean on me,” she urged.

“Bossy.”

Those brown eyes focused on her at that moment, and a dimple creased his cheek for a moment before his eyes drifted shut again. His body sagged, his weight dropping to her shoulders, sending her staggering and fighting for footing. The horse shied from the sudden movement, and Kit bore the man’s full weight for an instant before he went down on his knees again, bringing her to the dirt with him.

A shot rang out and terror jolted through Kit, almost disguising the stranger’s own start of surprise. Her muscles softened to water before she realized the noise had come from the fort. Agnes probably thought the man had attacked her.

She hoped the woman didn’t remember how to reload.

The horse had trotted away at the sound, but it returned now. With every ounce of strength, she shoved until the man swayed on his knees, then she clicked her tongue at the horse, who approached with head lowered.

This time the man managed to keep his grip on the stirrup and, with the help of Kit and the horse, climbed to his feet. He leaned against the horse, struggling for breath as he clutched his saddle. She pressed against his back, holding him up as she shoved his foot into the stirrup. Pushing and lifting with very little help from him, she draped him over the horse’s back, face down. He sighed but didn’t attempt to sit up.

“Will your horse let me lead him?”

His only response was a grunt. She didn’t try to decipher the meaning, only took the bridle and led the animal toward the fort. The horse’s hooves masked any other sound, and she had to be more vigilant. Her heart raced with each step, especially since Agnes had already fired the rifle and might not be able to shoot again to protect Kit. The horse sensed her anxiety and tossed its head, but she held tight, guiding him forward.

When she reached the heavy wooden doors of the fort, Mary pushed one door open. Twin reactions of relief and dismay washed through Kit. She opened the door wider for the horse, but shooed her sister-in-law to the side. She didn’t want this stranger knowing about the girl, so she waved Mary off, gesturing toward their quarters. Mary’s eyes filled with tears as Kit jerked her head toward the rooms, widening her own eyes for emphasis, and mouthed, “Now!”

Hurt flashed across the young woman’s face but she turned and did as Kit ordered.

Kit walked the horse across the yard to the western wall of the fort, where the second lieutenant’s bachelor quarters were situated. She stilled the horse with a hand to his muzzle, and opened the door.

The room was chillier than she expected. The oiled parchment over one window had torn and now flapped, the sound too loud in the narrow, cold confines. Despite the blast of fresh air, the room smelled moldy.

That didn’t matter. She needed to get him in here, get a fire going, and then she’d figure out what to do next.

She approached the horse’s side, gripped the back of the man’s shirt and heaved. Gravity helped her and he slid down to the ground, bumping into her, sending her staggering against the wall. She curled her arms under his, holding him close, letting his feet drag along the ground as she hauled him to the bed. She managed to heft him onto it, face down, and a musty cloud rose around him with the force of the drop. Holding her breath, she lifted his legs onto the narrow bunk. He was so tall his feet hung off the end. Well, this was the best she could do.

She rolled her aching shoulders as she reasoned out what needed to be done. Water first, for him to drink, which meant she had to get him on his back. Start a fire. Fix the window. Stable and feed his horse—at least the soldiers had left her hay.

Get the stranger healthy and on his way.

He was strong, though, well-muscled. Perhaps he could help them leave here. Almost immediately she pushed the thought away. She knew nothing about his temperament. No, sending him on his way would be the best choice. The safest.

She tightened her wrap around her, though she was warm and damp from her exertions, and headed to the well.

He’d managed to get himself onto his back when she returned. One arm crooked over his face.

“I have water,” she murmured, cradling the ceramic ladle in her hand. “Can you sit up?”

He didn’t respond. She stepped farther into the room and shook his shoulder. He groaned in response. She dragged her finger along the wet rim of the ladle and rubbed it over his cracked and heated lips. Her finger tingled and she resisted the urge to snatch her hand back from the too-intimate act. But he needed her help, and she couldn’t turn away from that. His breath came out on a sigh and he licked the water from his lips.

“More?” she asked.

His nod was almost imperceptible. Clearly he didn’t have the strength to sit up on his own. She edged closer to the bed, bending over him. His eyelids fluttered open and he looked up, brown eyes pained, as she curved her hand around the back of his head to lift it. His thick collar-length hair curled around her fingers, the heat of his skin warming her palm. She felt the pull of his muscles as he tried to help her. She brought the ladle to his lips, and in his eagerness to drink, he spilled half of it down his cheeks. She steadied him as he drank the rest.

He dropped his head back to the mattress and his eyes closed again. “More,” he croaked.

She straightened, her fingers chilled. If he had more after so long without, he would retch, and she had no desire to deal with that. Still, she needed more water to cool him. “I’ll be right back.”

This time as she crossed the dusty yard, Agnes and Mary waited at the well, tension and anxiety in the lines of their body. Kit wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. She didn’t have time to stop and explain anything, so she put them to work.

“Mary, can you stable and feed the horse? Mother, would you please see if we have clean bedding?”

Mary started off to do her bidding, but pulled up short when Agnes asked, “Who is he? What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s ill. I couldn’t leave him out there to die, it wouldn’t be right.”

But Agnes had paled at the news. “Sick? What if he makes us all sick? What if we die here and no one knows?”

The question was reasonable, but Kit had no answer. She only knew one way to prevent it. “I don’t want the two of you near him. I don’t want him to even know you’re here. I will take care of him and make sure he goes on his way. It’s the right thing to do.”

“If he’s not a murderer,” Agnes murmured, her words drawing a gasp of alarm from Mary.

“Right now he’s too sick to do anything.” Kit passed the women to draw more water, half filling the wooden bucket. “Please, Mary. Take care of the horse. Mother, the bedding? And Mary, when you’re done, could you finish the laundry?”

She hauled the bucket back to the barracks, but the stranger was asleep. She set the water at the head of the bed and went to collect wood for the fire, hoping the flue was clear. The last thing she needed to do was clean a chimney. She hauled in two armloads of wood and was building the fire when he groaned behind her. She tugged the flue open and turned as the kindling sparked.

She perched at the edge of the bed and brought the ladle to his lips, lifting his head. Again he drank greedily, water spilling down the sides of his throat. She used the end of her woolen wrap to dry his skin. His flesh was firm and strong beneath her fingers.

“Food?” he rasped.

She recognized the hopeful tone in his voice and straightened. Being hungry was a good sign. Perhaps he wasn’t as sick as she thought. Once he ate, he could be on his way. Maybe he’d tell someone about her situation and they would send supplies or an escort back to civilization. She could barely remember civilization, except that everything there wasn’t so hard.

She tamped down the hope. Hope only led to disappointment. “In a moment. What’s your name?”

“Trace. Trace Watson.” He let his head fall back to the pillow. “Cold.”

“All right, Mr. Watson. I’ll find you some blankets and get this window fixed. How long have you been sick, can you tell me that?”

But his snore caught her attention. He’d lapsed back to sleep.

***

Kit stood in the middle of the tiny room, her wrap draped over the back of a rickety cot, the fire blazing, the window repaired. The fresh bedding lay on the end of the cot under her wrap. She studied Trace Watson as she tried to figure out how she could change the bed he was sprawled upon.

Maybe she shouldn’t worry about it. He certainly didn’t seem to have trouble sleeping, though his forehead was creased with discomfort. She could just cover him with the extra blankets and leave him be. Only she couldn’t. She’d brought him here. She was responsible for his welfare.

When she opened the door, she was surprised to see the sun had already set, and darkness had fallen. The change of light in the western-facing room hadn’t drawn her notice. She walked across the yard to the rooms she shared with Mary and Agnes. The air had chilled, but the wind had died down, and she paused a moment to look up, hoping to see stars. Nothing. Still cloudy. Would they ever see the sun again?

Agnes stood beside the table, spoon in one hand, pot in another. Three places were set at the table, a glop of sticky porridge in each bowl. Kit had the uncharitable thought that Agnes made a point of cooking badly so she wouldn’t be asked to do it, but she had to admit, their choices were limited.

“Is there enough for Mr. Watson?” she asked her mother-in-law.

“Is he awake?”

“He will be before long. He asked for food earlier.”

Agnes looked into the pot in dismay. “There isn’t much.”

There never was. Kit sighed, ignoring the rumble of her stomach. “That’s all right. He can have mine.”

“Kit, you can’t do that,” Mary protested, grasping her arm.

“I’ll get something later.” She picked up the plate. “Is there bread?”

Of course there wasn’t. She hadn’t had time to start the dough this morning, and neither Agnes or Mary had thought to do it. Yes, Mary had been sick for weeks, and Agnes had been caring for her, but it was time the two of them looked around and helped out without being asked. Was this helplessness what came from being raised with money?

Battling resentment, she balanced her plate in one hand and tucked a ladder-backed chair under her other arm.

“Where are you going?” Agnes demanded.

“I want to watch him tonight. His fever is high, and we don’t have any more willow bark tea.” Mary had been given the last of it in her own battle with the fever.

“So what will you do?” Agnes asked.

“Whatever I can. Mary, can you open the door for me? I’ll see you in the morning.”

The narrow room was hot when she returned. The raspy sound of his breathing carried above the crackle of the fire. Kit set the plate on the chair and crossed to the fire, dragging a few logs to the side of the hearth so the flames died back. Then she returned to check on Mr. Watson.

His breathing was shallow, his mouth twisted in discomfort. She pressed a hand to his forehead and immediately snatched it back. Hot and dry, a bad combination. Poor little Daniel’s skin had felt the same before he died. But Mr. Watson was big and strong, not small like her baby. He could fight this, with her help. And then he’d be on his way.

She took a piece of clean bedding, wet it with water from the bucket, and dabbed the cool cloth on Mr. Watson’s forehead, his cheeks and around his hairline. His eyelids fluttered and he drew a breath between his chapped lips. Kit wasn’t sure if the sound signaled discomfort or relief. She continued under his chin to his throat. His stubble caught the fabric, stealing it from her grasp so that the edge of her hand brushed over his jaw, hot and prickly. Scrambling for a barrier between them, she reclaimed the cloth and eased it behind his neck, wiping, bringing the cloth back gray with dirt and sweat. She folded the cloth, ladled water onto a clean part, and dampened the base of his throat to the opening of his faded blue shirt. Store-bought fabric, not homespun. Who was this man?

Did it matter? Her task was to help him and send him on his way. Her other hand hovered over the buttons of his shirt. Would it help if she removed his shirt and washed his chest with cool water? Mary had felt relief when Kit had done that when she’d been suffering. As a widow, Kit was no stranger to the male form.

But she did not know this man.

She would wait. He seemed more peaceful now. She sat back in the chair, draping the cloth over the head of the bunk, and studied him. Big, strong, firm—when she’d hauled him in here she had felt how lean he was. He had no fat anywhere, but he was not bony. His shoulders were broad beneath his wool coat. His hair was thick and hung to his collar, shorter strands falling into his eyes. Such a beautiful color, especially in the firelight, which brought out the red. His forehead was high, his eyes tilted up just slightly, his nose a bit broad, as if it had been broken in the past, his lips full, teeth even, unstained by tobacco. Through the bristles on his jaw, she could see a hint of a dent in his chin, and she’d already witnessed the dimple in his cheek.

Many women would find him pleasing. She would too, if he wasn’t so worrisome.

Who was Trace Watson? And why was he out here in the wilds of Texas alone?

***

He woke a little later and ate the sticky cold porridge with her help, and without complaint. Feeding a full-grown man, easing a spoon between his lips, feeling his throat work beneath her fingers as he swallowed, was a strange experience, but he didn’t even have the strength to hold the spoon.

He fell into an exhausted sleep after the last bite of the porridge. Kit curled back into the chair, drawing her feet up under a blanket. The rumbling of her stomach couldn’t even keep her awake, and she fell asleep with her head resting on her raised knees.

A mournful sound woke her later. Kit lifted her head to check her patient. His eyes were rolled back and he murmured something incomprehensible, over and over. She reached for the cloth, wet it again and smoothed it over his face, forehead, cheek, chin, and down to his throat. His eyes snapped into focus and this time she understood what he said as he cupped his hand around the back of her neck, threading his fingers through her hair.

“Angel,” he whispered, and kissed her.

Chapter Two

His mouth was hot and dry, and the sound he made when he parted his lips over hers was pure hunger. He slid his tongue over her lips and into her mouth, stroking gently as his other hand glided down her side to span the small of her back. His mouth was tender but thorough; his desire both unmasked and coaxed hers.

Finally she thought to push him away, placing both hands against his broad chest, with only the briefest thought of curling her hands through his hair and pressing against him, giving herself over to the kiss and the pleasure of being held, touched, cherished.

But of course he wasn’t cherishing her—he didn’t even know what he was doing. The realization made her push harder. Her palms against his chest didn’t deter him, and the hand at her waist slid up over her ribs to curve over her breast, his thumb finding her nipple.

That it felt so good terrified her. She broke her hand away and slapped him. He released her then and she scrambled away. By the time she was on her feet, he’d come to his senses.

At least, he seemed to. His brown eyes were riveted on hers, and his brow furrowed. “Who—?” He stopped and cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Who are you?”

“Katherine Barclay.”

He wiped a hand over his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow to glance around the room. “Where am I?”

“In a garrison east of San Felipe, the Austin colony. Where were you heading?”

He dropped back to the mattress and stared at the ceiling, crooking his arm over his forehead, shielding his eyes. “Anywhere.”

“How long have you been sick?” If she knew that, maybe she’d know how long she’d be responsible for him.

“Don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand down his face.

The sight of his long-fingered hand sent a shiver through her as she thought of that hand on her body. She shook herself out of that line of thought. The kiss had been nothing to him. He’d clearly been dreaming. “Are you hungry?”

He flicked his gaze back to hers. “Famished. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

She blinked. “In that case, you won’t mind that it’s porridge again. I’ll be back shortly.” She moved toward the door.

“Miss Barclay.”

She turned.

“I—I apologize. I thought you were my wife. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I am not a man who would take those kinds of liberties.” He cleared his throat again. “I hope you can forgive me.”

His wife. Relief that he wasn’t a scoundrel combined with an odd disappointment that he was married. She should have been glad of both. John hadn’t been gone a year. She closed her hands around the latch of the door. “Of course. You didn’t know what you were doing, and it won’t happen again. I’ll fetch your porridge.”

Agnes and Mary were asleep when Kit entered their room. At least, she presumed they were asleep—the door to their bedroom was closed. She mixed up the porridge, eyeing the depleted supply of oats. She considered making more for herself but was too tense to eat, and the thought of porridge and honey didn’t tempt her palate. Now, jambalaya, that would be good. A nice ham. An apple pie.

Her mouth watered, but no sense wishing. She tucked the bowl of porridge under her wrap and headed back across the yard.

She pushed open the door to Mr. Watson’s room. Her heart kicked against her ribs at the sight before her.

He was sleeping again, sprawled on his back, one hand splayed on his bare chest. His smooth skin gleamed in the firelight, stretched over hard muscles. He didn’t appear to have gone without food too long.

She set the porridge down on the mantle and approached the bed, her hand hovering above his chest to test the heat radiating from it. He was still very warm, though his breathing was even and deep, but the fact that he hadn’t sweat out the sickness’s poison bothered her. Not quite on the mend yet. She heaved a sigh and sat in the chair by the bed. At least that would give her more time to figure out how to handle him.

What kind of man was he? Would he be willing to help them leave here, or even send someone back for them? Or would he be in a hurry to return to his wife? Apparently they had a loving relationship, if that kiss had been a clue.

It had been quite a kiss. She shouldn’t be thinking about that, since he was married. Since he was a stranger. Since she didn’t have time to be thinking about romance.

Yet questions ran through her mind as she shifted in the chair. “Angel,” he’d called her. Was that his wife’s name? If he loved her so much, why was he here, wandering to “anywhere?” Why wasn’t he with her? Where had he come from? Another adventurer, probably, looking for a new life in Texas. Another man ready to uproot his family to satisfy his own need to wander.

She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, to banish her resentment toward John for bringing her here and leaving her. He had warned her the experience would be rough but had assured her it would pay off in the long run. She wished she had that vision of an end goal to anticipate instead of just the constant worry how they would struggle through each day.

A rattling sound echoed through the room and she awakened to see Mr. Watson quaking on the bed, his arms limp at his sides. Terror choked her. Seizures. Daniel had suffered from them the day before the fever took him. She had to get this fever down.

Instantly awake, she rose from the chair, grabbed his wrists and pinned them to his sides, hoping that would still his quaking. When it didn’t, she released one wrist and reached for the cloth she had folded over the head of the bed, wet it, and smoothed it over his face. He fought the cloth, and she had to lean further over the bed, bracing one hand by his naked shoulder. The heat pumping off his body nearly seared her own flesh. The soothing nonsense she murmured was as much for herself as for him as she wet the cloth again, gliding it down his throat, behind his neck. She hesitated a moment at the base of his throat and contemplated his wide chest. Just the thought of touching the expanse of skin made her own flesh heat.

No, he was a patient. She couldn’t think of him in any other way. She would think of him as a very large little boy who needed her help. She wet the cloth again and slid it down the center of his chest, over his breastbone, then up again to his shoulder. She had to lean over to lift his right arm. Cooling Daniel’s arms and legs had helped bring down the fever for a bit, but he’d been so little, the fever came roaring back again and again.

She pushed the memories out of her head. She had to, to survive. No mother could dwell on such an event and remain sane. She took a deep breath, which brought with it the musky scent of man, and went to work.

She smoothed the cloth down sinewy arms, to square-palmed hands. What did this man do for a living to keep his body so fit? A horseman, perhaps, with those arms. Gently, she eased the fabric across his chest to his other shoulder, down the arm closest to her, and saw gooseflesh rise in the wake of the caress. His quaking had eased, but for how long? She wet the cloth again, bathed his arm, his chest, his flat stomach, and tried to think of his Angel, his wife. Was she proud to call this man husband? Was she waiting for him to return home? Kit had to ensure Angel didn’t suffer the same loss as she had.

She sat back, laying the cloth on its spot at the head of the bed. It would need laundering, since it now carried the dust of Texas trails. She took a blanket from her chair and draped it over Mr. Watson as his breathing became even once more.

And she was left with her own thoughts.

***

He was still asleep when the morning light glimmered through the oiled parchment on the window. Kit came awake with a jolt, her neck stiff. If it was light enough outside that this western-facing room was bright, the sun must be fairly high, and Mary and Agnes would be wondering where she was.

With a last check of her patient—still warm, but less so than last night—Kit gathered herself and stepped out into the frosty yard. She was right, the hour was late. The sun peeked over the eastern edge of the fort, and the clouds that usually framed it were gone, leaving the sky a sparkling blue.

Finally, sunshine.

“How is he?” Agnes asked the moment Kit slipped into their room.

“He had a bad night,” Kit murmured, dropping into her chair at the table for, yes, more porridge. But she was hungry enough not to care. She said a brief, silent prayer of thanksgiving before taking a bite. “Seizures.”

“If he dies, what then?”

Kit didn’t want to think about it. “I’ll bury him and see if I can find out who he is so I can notify his family. I’m doing all I can.”

“More than you should,” Agnes murmured.

Kit’s defenses stiffened her spine. “So I should have left him to die?” Without waiting for a response, she finished off her porridge in just a few bites, her spoon scraping the bowl. She had to check their stores today. Not that she could do anything about replenishing them, but she could ration better. And perhaps, if Mr. Watson got healthy soon, he could accompany her out of the fort to find something they could eat.

“Mary, come with me. It’s time to fire the cannon.”

The girl recoiled. “I hate doing that.”

“But you need to know how. It’s the only way I know to let our enemies know we’re not defenseless.”

“It’s so loud.”

“That’s why we do it. Get your wrap.”

They left Agnes to clean up the breakfast dishes and headed up the steps to the northern wall where the cannon sat. Kit’s box of supplies was nearby, and she picked up the charge to slide down the mouth of the barrel. She nodded to Mary, who took the ramrod and jammed the charge to the base of the barrel. Then, Mary hefted a cannonball into the cannon as Kit drew a fuse out of the box. She removed the vent at the top of the barrel and slipped the fuse in, knowing after weeks of doing this how deep it should go to make contact with the charge. When the cannonball rolled to the base of the gun, Kit nodded at Mary to return downstairs as she touched the smoldering length of rope that she kept on hand to light the fuse. She hurried to the corner of the fort as she did every day, ducked down and covered her ears, keeping her eye on the cannon. The sparkling fuse disappeared, Kit braced and the cannon jumped, the percussion of the exploding charge and flying cannonball echoing over the flat, empty land.

Ears still ringing, Kit straightened and started downstairs, coming to a halt when she caught sight of Mr. Watson swaying in the doorway of his room, bare chested, his pistol in his hand at his side.

Fear weakened her knees for an instant, and she cast a glance about, grateful Mary had already gone inside. Kit hurried across the yard to Mr. Watson, heart thudding as she waited for him to raise his pistol and shoot her.

“Are we under attack?” He struggled to focus as he lowered his gaze to her.

“No. I fired the cannon—it’s just a daily exercise.” His appearance at the doorway made her remember that he didn’t know only three women lived here.

“I heard it,” he said, his speech slurring, his swaying more pronounced.

She tucked an arm around him to guide him back to bed. His skin was dry and warm, but not as warm as earlier. Had the fever broken? “How could you not?”

“Yesterday. The sound was how I found you.”

Hm. Was that good or bad? That remained to be seen. “I’m glad you did. There’s not much else around. You need to go back to bed and get well.” As she said it, she dropped him to the mattress.

He fell onto his back without urging, pulled his legs up as she fussed with the blanket. “What’s your name?”

Something in his voice had changed, become smooth. “Katherine. They call me Kit.”

“Kit,” he repeated. “To the point. I’m Trace.”

She nodded her acknowledgement, unwilling to use his given name so freely, regretting that she’d told him hers. She didn’t want to become friends, only to have him leave her behind. “I need to get to my chores. Is there anything you need?

But he didn’t release her. “You’re very lovely, Kit.”

She coughed out a dismissive laugh, swiped her wild hair from her wind-reddened cheeks and pulled away. “That I know to be untrue, sir. There’s still porridge from last night. I’m sorry, our stores are low and I can’t refresh it for you.”

“It’s fine.” But he hadn’t looked away, as though he was trying to figure something out by watching her.

She twisted away, her face heating. “You should stay in bed and recover. Besides, we don’t know if you’re still contagious, and you don’t want to sicken the entire fort.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get sick?”

If she did, at least she’d be off her feet. She pushed the uncharitable thought aside. “I’ve helped several sick soldiers and haven’t sickened yet.”

“Too stubborn?” he asked.

“Very likely.” As she snapped the blanket over him, she could no longer resist meeting his gaze. Those brown eyes laughed at her, and beneath the stubble, not one but two dimples winked. “However, the soldiers died. I’ll not allow the same to happen to you. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Your saddlebags are by the fire if there’s anything else you have need of. I’ll ask you to put your pistol away, just in case one of the soldiers gets antsy at you being here.”

“Miss Barclay,” he said as she reached the door. “You don’t happen to have any books? I’m not too good at being still, but a book might help.”

She hadn’t expected a request like that. John had never read, had thought it a waste of time. She had a feeling anything she learned about Trace Watson would be a surprise, especially after the stories she’d told herself about him. “I have a few. I’ll bring them when I come back.”

***

Trace lowered himself to the bunk, cursing the illness that made him too weak to sit upright for long. He’d fallen off his horse, something he hadn’t done since he was five years old. What would his father say? His would probably call him a drunk, but he wasn’t. Trace had wanted to lose himself in liquor, but didn’t want to numb the pain. Trying to forget Angelina wouldn’t be fair to her memory.

His limbs trembled and his body ached as he reached for the shirt at the foot of the bed. As he shrugged into it, moving as slow as an old man, he recalled the tender strokes Kit Barclay had made across his face, his chest, her breath coming in gentle puffs against his skin. The touch of the pretty young woman had a strong effect on him, one he hadn’t expected to feel after Angelina died. How could he look at Kit Barclay without feeling unfaithful to his wife? How could he be so aroused by a stranger’s touch?

The sickness was taking his self-control—that was it. And his energy. He stretched out on the bed. He would accept Miss Barclay’s hospitality long enough to recover sufficiently to stay in the saddle. Then he’d be on his way. The destination didn’t matter. All that mattered was creating more distance from his life with Angelina.

But as he drifted to sleep again, he didn’t smell the rose water Angelina had used, didn’t see the spill of dark hair against his skin. Instead, he smelled lye soap and saw wild blonde hair.

***

Trace sat up when the door scraped open. His heart bumped when he saw the swish of Kit’s skirt around the corner. He wished for the strength to get the door. She backed in, her elbow depressing the latch, a bowl on a plate in one hand and a cup in the other. The scents that accompanied her made his mouth water.

“Is that coffee?” he asked with reverence, bracing his hands behind him on the bed.

“Weak, but it’s real coffee, not chicory. I’m making it last as long as I can,” she apologized, crossing to hand him the bowl of gruel and thick hunk of bread before setting the coffee on the seat of the chair beside him. “It’s been a while since the last shipment came through.”

And would be a while until the next, if what he’d seen in the area was any indication. He’d managed to stay beneath the notice of the Indians who roamed the area, but he’d seen a number of them sporting weapons that likely had been meant for this fort. They probably had stolen the coffee too. Still, Indians or no Indians, a fort of soldiers couldn’t last long without supplies.

“Your men should go out to meet the supply wagon instead of waiting for it to arrive.”

Though, where were the soldiers? Why was Kit the one taking care of him? And though he hadn’t thought the garrison was large, he never heard men about. Then there was Kit’s appearance…her dress hung so loosely on her, as if she’d lost weight suddenly. Was she here alone?

A flash of memory—Kit standing on the garrison wall with a young woman, near the cannon. Not alone, then. But protecting someone.

From him.

She busied her hands folding the blanket and tucking it at the end of the bed. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

He tried to push himself back to sit against the wall, but his arms trembled. She bent close and curved her arms around his chest, letting him lean against her. He’d been wrong about her scent. The scent was strong and clean, but softer than lye. Gentle. Soothing. The hands that rested against his chest were not too small, creased with work, nails short but neat. A working woman’s hands, but still tender, feminine. He wanted to cover her hand with his, just in thanks, but knew she’d draw away. He leaned his head against her breasts as he eased into a sitting position, more slowly than he needed to, just to keep the contact. Regret twinged through him. He missed the softness of a woman, the softness of Angelina. The hard earth was no replacement for sleeping beside her body, but at least he wasn’t in the bed he’d shared with her for three years, the bed they’d conceived their child in.

The bed she’d died in.

He pulled away from Kit as she arranged his pillow against the head of the bed. He sank against it and immediately missed her warmth.

“Did you find the books you said you’d bring?” he asked to distract himself from his sorrow, and his longing.

She nodded toward the window, where three well-worn books sat on the sill. He twisted, slowly, and picked up all three in one hand. Just that effort taxed his muscles, but he didn’t want her to see, and tucked them against his stomach on the cot, lifting one at a time to read their titles. Scott’s Ivanhoe and Rob Roy, and Byron’s The Corsair.

Surprise quirked his lips, and he looked up. “You like adventure?”

She swept loose curls back from her face, but didn’t meet his gaze. Something had her on edge. “If you’ve read them, I can find The Vampyre.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your husband’s books?”

A small smile played at her mouth. “No.” She glanced over. “Have you read them?”

“Rob Roy is one of my favorites.” But he didn’t want to talk about the books. He wanted to know about her, and what brought her here. “Is your husband a soldier?”

Her body became even more tense, and her mouth tightened. “Not anymore. Your porridge is getting cold.” She picked up the plate with his bread and gruel.

He took it, concentrating to capture the spoon, and then lifted it carefully to his lips. The liquid splashed back into the bowl as his hand shook. He grumbled in frustration and tried again. He hadn’t even wanted the blasted porridge, but now he wanted nothing more than to taste it.

Finally he curved his fingers around the bowl and raised it, manners be damned.

The gruel was still warm, and while a bit salty, it felt good sliding down his throat. He moaned in pleasure as it hit his empty stomach, and then opened his eyes to look into her amused ones. The sight of her mirth hit him in the gut.

He hadn’t been around a woman in months. That had to be why his reaction to her was so strong. He wasn’t betraying Angelina. He shifted and picked up the bread, which crumbled on the dish. He frowned.

Her cheeks tinted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take the time I should have with the bread.”

He merely gathered the crumbs and dropped them into the soup, watching them soak up the gruel. “I think I can manage this way.

Kit hovered a moment, then stood, brushing her hands down her skirt.

“Don’t go.” He’d been alone for so long, and while he’d initially wanted to remain that way, now the thought of the door closing behind her filled him with an emptiness he didn’t want to name.

She stopped, a shiver of nerves running the length of her body. At being with him? She’d been in here with him for…well, he didn’t know how long.

“Is there something more you need?”

He took a breath. “I haven’t had company for a meal in a while.”

The pitying look she gave him grated on his nerves, but she swept the seat of the chair clean and sat on the edge. She didn’t relax, even when she pulled out her sewing.

“What are you making?” he asked when she remained silent.

She held up the fabric for his inspection. “A new shirt. Yours is in tatters, and I didn’t see another in your things.”

He set the spoon back in the bowl, his skin chilled. “You went through my things?” His voice was gruffer than he intended.

She stiffened, her mouth forming an indignant line. “I wasn’t spying on you, merely looking for a change of clothes. You were filthy when you came in, your clothes no better than rags.”

Because he’d left home with only one change of clothes, unable to bear going into the chifforobe he’d shared with Angelina, unwilling to look at her pretty dresses and remember her in them. He studied Kit’s face, searching for a sign that she’d seen more than he cared for her to know, but she merely returned his gaze, eyes snapping with temper.

God, she had pretty eyes.

And he was being ungracious. “Thank you for the shirt.” That she was making from another man’s. Her husband’s? “Has he been gone long?”

He hadn’t thought it possible for her to stiffen further, but her lips thinned and she turned back to her sewing. That action more than anything reaffirmed what he’d already suspected. A woman wouldn’t make a stranger a new shirt from her husband’s old ones unless the husband wasn’t coming back.

“What do you mean?”

“Was it the Indians?”

She kept her head turned. “Outlaws. On the Louisiana border.” Her voice was soft, sad, but not tearful.

“And he left you here with the soldiers.”

Her head came up then, her expression tight, her eyes narrowed. “John didn’t expect to be killed.”

“No, that’s true.” Every man thought he had all the time in the world, time to love his woman, to build his fortune. He understood that pride very well. “How long, Kit?”

“We got word in October.”

Three months. “Why are you still here? You should go to the colony, or back home.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is. Get some of the soldiers to escort you…” He trailed off, seeing how she pulled her lips between her teeth. “How many soldiers remain?”

She didn’t answer.

“Who fires the cannon?” The explosion had awakened him the past five mornings. He’d used the cannon fire to keep track of the days.

She remained silent, folding up the shirt again, preparing to flee.

A realization struck him, stilling his heart for a moment. The fort was very quiet, day and night. Too quiet. Groups of men couldn’t stay quiet so long. There was no singing, no shouts, no footsteps other than hers. “Kit, are you here alone?”

“Of course not.” She bounced to her feet. “I’ve neglected my duties too long. Will you be able to finish that on your own?” She indicated his dinner, grown cold now.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be back to collect your plate and bowl later. Will you need me before then?”

She didn’t want him to need her. He understood that. She had other things to do. If there were no men here—no soldiers, anyway—was she running this place by herself? If he were stronger, he could help. But he could barely hold a spoon by himself. And if he helped her, would he then feel obliged to stay?

He’d told himself when he left Louisiana that he would go where the wind took him. Getting involved with another person, tying himself down, was not something he wanted. He was in no shape to do that, physically or emotionally. As soon as he was healthy again, he had to move on. Maybe he’d find a purpose somewhere along the line, but not here and not now. Responsibility would come soon enough.

“No, ma’am. I’ll manage just fine.”

She slipped out the door, her head bowed gratefully, not even looking back.

Now, if only he could believe his own words.

Chapter Three

Kit pushed the door of their quarters open with her backside, balancing Mr. Watson’s dirty dishes and her sewing basket.

Agnes looked up from stirring the fire. “He’s getting well?”

“And hungrier.” Kit set the basket on the table and wiped her hair back from her face with her wrist. Mr. Watson had drunk the gruel straight from the bowl and eaten two pieces of the awful bread, but she’d still heard his stomach grumbling when she left the room. Her own had rumbled in response as he unknowingly ate her share of the bread. “I don’t know how we can continue to feed him. Have you seen the size of him?”

“No, you won’t let us go over there.” Mary pouted from the table where she kneaded more bread.

If they continued to use the bread starter and wheat at this rate, they’d spend the rest of the winter eating porridge. Kit’s taste buds rebelled. What she wouldn’t give for a sweet, juicy apple. Or apple pie. She didn’t even have what she’d need to make the crust.

“I don’t trust him.” Bad enough she’d let him know that no men were about. So far he was too weak to take advantage of the situation. If he decided to…well, she would ensure she alone suffered for her mistake.

“Why not?” Mary countered.

Kit set the basket on a nearby chair with a thunk. “I know nothing about him.”

Mary flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You spend enough time over there.”

“When he was fevered. Not when he’s awake and regaining his strength with every bowl of gruel.” She carried the dishes over to the wooden tub, so weary she could barely stand.

She would not admit to them that she missed the scent of a man, that being in the room with him reminded her of the cozy life she’d had with John, before he had brought her out here and abandoned her.

“Is he handsome?” Mary asked.

Silly romantic girl. Had Kit been so foolish? Had she changed? Because she did find him handsome, especially when he smiled and his cheeks dimpled and white teeth flashed.

She sniffed, trying to mask her reaction with disdain. “He’s dirty and smelly.” And young and strong.

What would it be like to have someone to lean on again, to take some of the weight from her shoulders?

No. She’d promised herself she would not let anyone take charge of her life again, make her decisions for her. If this was the life she had to lead to keep that vow, so be it. She would be in control of her destiny from now on.

“He’s young,” Agnes remarked, sitting at the table near where Mary worked.

Kit tensed at the older woman’s disapproving tone. “That he is.”

“You need to watch yourself. Men have ideas about widows, especially young ones. You need to be on your guard.”

“I know.” She was always on her guard. She wished she could let it down, just for a bit. She tightened the cloak about her shoulders. “We need more wood.”

Grateful for the excuse to be out from under Agnes’s scrutiny, she walked into the yard. She stopped short at the sight of Mr. Watson standing in the doorway of the second lieutenant’s quarters, his hands braced on either side of the door as he inspected the yard. She wasn’t ready for him to be on his feet. She needed more time to think, to prepare. She swept up her skirt and rushed across the open space.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “Looking for the outhouse.”

She shifted when he looked past her toward their quarters, and she prayed Mary or Agnes didn’t come out. She didn’t want him to know her vulnerabilities, not yet. “You have a chamber pot.”

His face flushed beneath his stubble. “I don’t want you doing that for me anymore. And I need to stretch my legs.”

“It’s too cold and you’re not well yet. You need to get back inside.” She crowded him, trying to herd him back into the barracks. If she hadn’t noticed how big he was when she was hauling him into the fort, she did now when she had to look up at him. And up.

He didn’t back away, merely craned his head to meet her gaze. Amusement at her dilemma brightened his brown eyes.

“Really, you shouldn’t be on your feet just yet.” Her hand hovered above his chest before she changed her mind about touching him there and pushed at his upper arm to steer him back into the barracks.

“Kit,” he chided gently. “The room smells like sweat and smoke. I just want some air.”

What was she going to do, wrestle him back into the room? She couldn’t keep him prisoner. But how could she protect her family against someone so big? She’d have to let him out, and do her best to keep Mary and Agnes away.

“The outhouse is over there.” She motioned toward the big doors at the entrance. “Can you make it by yourself?”

“Or die trying.” He pushed away from the doorjamb and started toward it.

She watched him make his way to the small room set into the wall. It would be cold in there, not like the room he’d left. Heat poured from the open door behind her, and she turned to see he’d stirred up the fire. And Lord, the room did smell—like illness, dirty man and musty corn husks. The linens she’d brought days ago sat on the rickety chair, unused. Deciding to use them now, Kit crossed the room to strip the bedding he’d sweated on.

She jolted when his shadow dimmed the light in the room, and pivoted to see him leaning in the doorway. His breathing was labored and his face sheened with sweat from his trek across the yard. The urge to go to him, to steady him, was strong, but she resisted. Now that he was on his feet he was more of a threat, and she couldn’t risk softening toward him.

“I didn’t mean for you to do that.” He nodded toward the bed.

“It needed to be done.” She smoothed the sheet and straightened.

He didn’t move out of her way when she gathered the pile of dirty linens and approached the door. Her heart thundered in alarm. What more did he want from her?

“I could sure use a bath and a shave.” He scrubbed his hand over his jaw in emphasis.

The stubble he’d arrived with had thickened, shadowing his cheeks, jaw and throat. She understood the need to be clean, especially after he’d sweated out his fever. But how could she accomplish the task? She couldn’t carry the hip bath over here, or the cauldron to heat the water, and he was too weak to help. He sat on the clean bed, folding his hands, but not before she saw how he trembled, just from walking across the yard.

She tried discouraging him. “It will be too cold and you don’t have any clean clothes.”

He scratched the back of his head and frowned at his raised arm. “I can’t stand myself right now. I’ll even haul the water.”

As if he had the strength. She shook her head and sighed. She could manage it, though her very soul told her this was a bad idea. “I’ll set up the bath in my quarters and come get you when it’s ready.”

She eased past him and hurried back to her rooms, trying to remember all the things she needed to do today, everything that had gone out of her head when she agreed to help him bathe.

Agnes and Mary looked up from their sewing at her entrance and watched in concern as Kit dragged the copper hip bath down from its hook near the stove.

“It’s Thursday,” Mary pointed out, frowning.

“He wants a bath.” She set the tub near the fire. No sense him catching a chill that would put him back in bed where she’d have to care for him again.

“In here?” Agnes rose from the wooden bench, her tone indignant.

Kit swallowed the huff of exasperation. Where else? She didn’t say it, but she couldn’t stop a bite of impatience. “I can hardly cart it all over there.” Kit turned to face her family. “I need the two of you to stay in the bedroom until he’s gone.”

Mary shivered. “How long will that be?”

Kit frowned, not liking the need to send her family into the fireless bedroom. Mary hadn’t fully recovered from her illness. She couldn’t catch another chill. She would rush through Mr. Watson’s toilette. “A bath and a shave. No more than half an hour, I suppose.”

“And you’re going to help him.”

Kit couldn’t meet her mother-in-law’s judgmental gaze. “He can’t do it on his own.”

“If he’s well enough to bathe, he’s well enough to be on his way.”

Her thoughts had traveled along the same line. But she remembered how he’d shaken. “Not quite. Another day or two.” She pushed her loose tendrils back from her face and turned to Agnes. “Please, Mother.”

Agnes eased her shoulders a bit. “Do you need help getting the water?”

“No. I don’t want him to know you’re here. I’ll get it.”

Filling the cauldron, heating the water, and transferring the water to the tub took a long time. Kit was sweating and wanted a bath herself by the time she walked across the yard to fetch Mr. Watson. If he was asleep, she would use the bath. She almost hoped he was as she knocked on the door. He swung it open with more energy than she expected, eagerness tightening the line of his body.

She frowned, keeping her gaze on his face. The sheer size of him made her body warmer. “Your bath is ready.”

The eagerness faded as he studied her. “I’m sorry. It was too much to ask.”

She didn’t affirm or deny it, merely turned to lead him back to her quarters, not sure what to say. Her nerves danced as they approached the rooms. He would be naked, and they would essentially be alone.

His own unease was apparent once she closed the door behind them. He shifted his weight and glanced about, taking in the small area, the hip bath by the fire. The room was as warm as his, with the added moisture from the water over the fire, and his skin glowed with perspiration.

“Um, I—” He made a circle where he stood, searching for something.

“I don’t have a screen,” she murmured. “I’ll just—work over here.” She gestured to the tub of dishes on the sideboard and stood to face it, stacking the drying dishes to drown out the swish of fabric as he undressed. Her imagination, which had been inactive until he arrived, pictured him shedding each item of clothing. She remembered the expanse of muscled chest and shoulders, the long strong arms. Finally she heard the splash of water that told her he was in the tub. She debated whether she should turn around. Did he need help? Why did she presume he did? Maybe he wanted his privacy altogether.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder. His head was tilted back, hands draped over the sides of the tub, knees drawn up almost to his chin. His eyes were shut and his expression was relaxed but his face was pale. She stepped closer, gaze fixed on his broad shoulders, long arms carved with muscle, and wide chest covered with the lightest scattering of curling hair. How good would it feel to curl up against it, listen to his heart beat and feel those arms around her? His eyes opened and looked into hers, pleasure curving his lips as though he knew what she was thinking. She took a quick step back and glanced around for something, anything, to distract her.

“The, ah, soap and a wash cloth are here. The soap is lavender. I’m sorry, it’s all I have.” On the table. Too far for him to reach without standing up. She pushed a chair closer to the tub and set the cloth and soap on the seat, then hung the drying sheet over the back. “Is there anything else you need?”

“A razor. I didn’t bring one.”

Grateful for a reason to look away, she turned, taking a deep breath. “I have John’s here somewhere.”

“Kit.”

“It was a nice one. He kept it well-sharpened.” She crossed the room to the chest of drawers by the bedroom door, found the razor in the top drawer, wrapped in chamois. She traced the engraved handle, then tested the edge of the blade with her thumb. She frowned and carried it back over to Mr. Watson. “Is it sharp enough?”

He pressed too hard and a line of blood appeared on the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

A thought occurred to her. “I don’t have a shaving mirror.”

“Ah.” He rubbed his hand over his beard. “Can’t cut my throat after all your hard work keeping me alive.”

He wouldn’t ask. She wondered why. Maybe because he’d asked so much already? “I can do it.”

He lifted his eyebrows. Perhaps he didn’t trust her.

“I’ve done it before, for John.”

“John was apparently a braver man than I.” He handed back the razor and she set it down on the table with a snap. He drew in a deep breath. “All right. I’d like you to shave me.”

She hadn’t realized what she’d offered when she said the words. She would have to get close to him, touch him, and already his big body made her nervous. She glanced over to see a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Could you wash my hair, too? I can’t think of how to do it without getting water all over your floor.”

Palms tingling in anticipation of feeling that thick hair between her fingers, she picked up the pitcher she used to rinse Mary and Agnes’s hair when they bathed on Saturday. “All right.”

She crossed to the stove and filled the pitcher with warming water. Returning to the tub, she held the container out to him. “See if this is too hot.”

He dipped his finger in. “Just right.”

“Bend forward.”

He did, obediently, and she slowly poured the water, hesitantly sliding her fingers through his thick brown hair to wet it all. He remained still as the water drizzled from his hair to the tub, rivulets sluicing over his strong neck to coast down the indentation of his spine. She drew in a deep breath, trying to find her senses, only to breathe in the scent of man and soap.

It all felt too familiar, taking her back to many other bath nights, when John and she would bathe, sometimes washing each other, sometimes bathing together, before falling into bed.

Pushing aside memories of her husband, she set the ewer down to lather her hands with the soap, and smoothed it into Trace’s hair, telling herself it was no different than washing Mary’s hair. His was thick, so she had to work a little harder to get the soap in, circling her fingers against his scalp, his temples, the crown of his head, taking longer than she needed with the sensual feel of his hair between her fingers, until he moaned in pleasure.

The sound pierced her thoughts and she snatched her hands back. He lifted his head to look at her, squinting against the soap that framed his face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Just—no one’s done that for me in a long time.”

How long, she wondered, and who? His Angel? But she kept her lips pressed in a disapproving line nonetheless. What would he think if he knew she’d been enjoying it, as well?

She wiped her soapy hands on her apron, hating the thought that she removed the feel of him from her skin as she did so, and carried the pitcher back to the stove for more warm water. He would need to get out of the tub soon, or she’d have to heat more water. He took the washcloth as she returned, and covered his face with it. He yelped as the first stream of water hit his scalp, and the line of his shoulders tensed.

“That was hotter,” he said needlessly, his voice muffled against the cloth.

“I’m sorry.” But she poured more, easing her fingers through his hair to release the soap. “One more time. You have thick hair.”

He grunted, letting his hair drip as she returned to the stove and filled the pitcher. This time she cut the hot with some of the cold, then refilled the pot from the well bucket beside the stove. He sucked in his breath in anticipation before the water hit, then sighed again when she fingered his hair.

“I think I have it all.”

He scooped his hair from his face, slicked it straight back, and leaned against the edge of the tub. Her gaze slipped to the waterline and below. Oh, dear. Oh. Dear. Very, um, manly.

She blinked and returned her attention to his face. His eyes were open. She hoped he attributed her blush to the heat from the fire, that he hadn’t seen her gaze slip.

“Is your water warm enough?”

“Mm.”

“Just—because it might take me some time to shave you and I don’t want to get the bristles in the water.”

His lips curved. “You talk too much.”

She straightened. “No one’s ever accused me of that.”

He blinked droplets of water from his eyelashes. “I’m making you nervous.”

“Of course not.” As if by saying the words she could contradict her actions.

His hand shot out of the water and he caught her wrist. “Liar.”

She tugged free, hoping her glare would deter him from another intimate gesture like that, even as his absent touch burned her skin. “You do still want me to shave you.”

He reached for the soap and dropped the bar into her palm. “Please.”

Gingerly she dipped her soap into the water, careful to hold onto it, because if she dropped it into the water she’d have to fish it out, and she really didn’t want to do that. She lathered her hands, hesitated, then brushed the lather over his cheeks, chin and jaw. His beard was long enough to feel smooth beneath her fingers, not prickly. It had both scratched and tickled her face when he’d kissed her in his fevered state. Her gaze flicked to his lips as the memory warmed her and raised her curiosity. Would it be different when he knew he was kissing her?

It didn’t bear thinking about, even if her stomach trembled at the thought. He was married and she was a widow with more responsibilities than she could bear. She didn’t need to add the sin of longing to her already full plate. She smoothed his beard, wiped her hands on her apron again, and picked up the razor. His fingers tightened on the edges of the tub as she leaned close, scraped the razor up his cheek, leaving a clean patch of skin. Relief rushed through her. A good stroke, no hair, no blood in its wake. She repeated it, clearing his cheek and the dimple that had been hidden beneath the beard. She took a deep breath and nodded.

“Tilt your head back.”

He did, easing further down to rest the back of his head against the lip of the tub. She refused to allow her gaze to wander to see how much more of his body was exposed. She shifted her grip on the razor and carefully dragged it along his throat. That was too nerve-wracking, so she shortened her strokes, clearing away soap and hair in tiny swipes. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed too close to the razor. She froze.

“You can’t do that,” she scolded.

He lifted his head a bit. “Do what?”

“Move.”

***

Trace bit back a comment; she was still holding the razor after all. If he could have turned into a rock, he would have. Not just particular parts of him. Did her skin have to glow like that, did she have to smell so good, like flowers and yeast and woman? She bent closer, her breath warm against his throat, her free hand cupping his cheek to hold his head steady, her fingertips stroking in rhythm to the movement of the razor. The simple caress made his groin tighten and his long-denied body urged him to pull her into the water with him, kiss her deep and long.

She’d probably cut his throat. And even if he wasn’t grieving, a gentleman didn’t abuse his hostess like that. She’d been nothing but good to him, taking time from her duties to care for him. Taking liberties with her person was not the way to repay her kindness.

The razor bit into his skin, just under his jaw, cutting into his thoughts. His eyes flew open to see the dismay in hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, pressing an edge of the cloth to the cut.

“Must not be too bad. I’m not light-headed yet.”

She pulled away the cloth, inspected it, and tucked it out of sight before he could do more than glimpse it out of the corner his eye. Huh. That was a lot more red than he usually got when he shaved. Now that the pressure was off, the cut stung.

“Here. Hold this.” She pressed his hand to the cloth at his throat, then rinsed off the razor in the water too near his belly and his rising problem. He went absolutely still.

Oblivious to his concern, she walked around behind him and went to work on his other cheek, this time her hand curving under his chin to hold his skin tight. He wanted to check the blood, but didn’t move as she scraped his cheek with more confidence. His skin felt cool in the path of the razor, as if it was refreshed, renewed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved.

And then she was done. She sat back with a sigh and dropped the folded razor on the table. He lifted the cloth to inspect it, but he’d already stopped bleeding.

“I don’t want to do that again,” she said on a shaky laugh.

He stroked his finger over his jaw, checking for stray bristles. Clean, smooth. Good. “I thank you. You did a commendable job.”

He heard the scrape of a chair over the floor and turned to see her gripping the arms. She lifted one hand to show him it was shaking. He whistled through his teeth as his groin relaxed and his skin chilled, and not because the water had cooled.

“You weren’t shaking like that when you were holding the razor?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t let myself.”

She wouldn’t—? He’d never seen anyone with that level of control. What kind of reserves did she draw upon for that?

The water was cooling rapidly, so he dipped his cloth into the water, lathered it, and rubbed it over his chest, under his arms. Kit’s scent rose up from the cloth, from the lather. If he was going to smell like a woman, at least he’d smell like a beautiful woman.

Where had she gone, anyway? He twisted around to see her sitting behind him. She jolted, embarrassed at being caught looking at him, and pushed from her chair, crossing the room to busy herself by the stove.

“I’ll get more water,” she murmured, picking up the bucket and heading for the door.

He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want her that far from him. “Kit, would you scrub my back?”

She stopped still in the doorway, the sway of her skirts and the swing of the bucket the only motion. She closed the door and turned slowly, her expression serene, unreadable. She wasn’t even blushing. She set the bucket on the table and walked back to him, hand extended for the washcloth. He dropped it in her hand and leaned forward expectantly. Her fingers in his hair had been so nice. He wanted to feel her touch on his skin.

Instead, he heard the brisk rubbing of soap to cloth, and then the press of the cooled cloth on his back, making him flinch. With more force than he expected, she damn near rubbed off a layer of skin as she circled the cloth from shoulders to spine to lower back, stopping just under the water line. He barely had time to enjoy the pressure of her touch before she dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out over his skin. She slapped the cloth over the edge of the tub, and without looking at him, strode out of the room, bucket swinging.

***

Kit had forgotten her wrap. The cold wind tore through her clothes and stung her bare wet hands as she crossed the yard to the well. She had wanted to linger on that broad back, wanted to trace her fingers over the ridges of muscle, down the indentation of his spine. She wanted to feel the warmth of him, the strength, the play of muscle beneath skin.

But she couldn’t allow herself. She’d already been more intimate with him than she should have been with any man other than her husband. Why did he have no more shame than to ask her to scrub his back? Perhaps because she had offered to shave him—had that been too brazen? She’d hoped she was being practical, but the truth was, she enjoyed touching him.

She shouldn’t enjoy touching him. She needed to do what Agnes said—get him healthy and get him gone.

The crank squeaked as she brought up the bucket and headed back to the room, bracing herself for their next encounter.

Nothing could have prepared her to see him standing in the tub, reaching for the towel, in all his naked glory. And he was glorious. Those broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist and hips. The light hair of his chest thickened and darkened across his belly to his…to the part that made him a man, which was not in a relaxed state. She’d only ever seen John’s manhood, and her blood had warmed in anticipation when his had been in this condition.

Mr. Watson wrapped the towel around himself, in no particular hurry to preserve his modesty, or hers. In fact, when she could bring herself to look into his eyes, she saw a heat there, a need.

Cheeks flaming, she pivoted toward the stove, as if she hadn’t just been gawking at his private parts. She heard the swish of water that accompanied his exit from the tub, listened to the rub of cloth over his skin, and finally the rustle of fabric as he pulled on his clothes. Her belly tugged, deep and low and unfamiliar after so long. She didn’t dare glance back to check. Finally she heard the scrape of a chair and a sigh.

“That bath took a lot more out of me than I thought,” he said with a chuckle.

She turned to see him sitting at the table, handsome as sin with his hair clean and pushed back from his face, his beard gone, revealing dimples in each cheek and a slight dent in his chin. She caught a knowing look in his eyes, as if he was laughing at her for seeing him naked.

“Perhaps you need to go back to bed and rest then,” she retorted, turning back to the stove. Maybe she could think like a normal person when he wasn’t drawing all the air out of the room.

“Might.”

The scrape of his chair echoed in the small room, as did the pad of bare feet, and then he rested a hand against the small of her back, his hand so big that it spanned her. She stiffened at his touch, pulse thundering, and he bent his head to murmur in her ear, his breath stirring her hair.

His “thank you” was drowned out by the sound of a hammer cocking. Both of them whirled to see Agnes standing in the door, a rifle braced to her shoulder.

“You, sir, get away from my daughter.”

Chapter Four

Trace raised his hands and turned to face the older woman, putting himself between Kit and the gun. How had he been caught unawares? He should have realized someone else was here—he thought he’d heard a giggle when he got out of the tub. He glanced past the older woman and saw a girl peeking over her shoulder, eyes huge as she stared at him.

“I’m no threat here, ma’am. Put the gun down.”

“We’re respectable women here.”

“Yes, ma’am, I can see that.”

“We don’t need your kind pawing all over us.”

His kind? Before he could open his mouth to say another word, Kit slipped in front of him, her hand out to the older woman, placating.

“He’s not doing any harm, Mother,” she said wearily. “He was just thanking me for my help.”

The other woman jerked the rifle toward him. His heart jerked right with it, waiting for the ball to fire and penetrate his skin. Wasn’t it just a few days ago he didn’t care if he lived or died?

“And flaunting his nakedness in front of you,” the older woman snapped.

That giggle again. Trace flicked his gaze to the girl, who stared at the front of his pants with some interest.

“There’s no harm done.” Kit took a step forward. “Give me the rifle and I’ll put it back.”

Trace watched as Kit took the gun and pointed the barrel at the floor as she disengaged the hammer. She hesitated a moment, as if not sure she could trust him, then handed it to him and motioned him to hang it on the empty rack above the fire. Something else he’d missed. He must be more ill than he thought.

The woman and the girl entered the room now, still wary. Trace glanced at Kit. Her shoulders dragged in resignation as she made the introductions.

“Mr. Watson, this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Barclay, and my sister-in-law, Miss Mary Barclay. Mother, Mary, this is Mr. Watson.”

Three women alone in this fort. How long? Since John Barclay died? How had they managed? He turned to look at Kit, certain she was the will behind their survival. She didn’t meet his gaze, instead facing the stove.

“Since you’ve met everyone, you may as well stay here for dinner,” she said over her shoulder.

He opened his mouth to say he was ready to crawl back into bed, but the thought of the extra work he’d caused her today stopped him. Carrying a separate meal to him every morning and evening just added to the workload. He couldn’t ask her to carry his meal over when he was right here.

“That’d be nice.” He didn’t mean it. The look the older Mrs. Barclay was giving him would sour his food. But he had to think of Kit and how he could make her life easier.

Still not looking at him, she turned her attention to the tub, and circled around to grab it.

He cut her off, his hand on her upper arm. Strong, thin. Too thin. The other women too. How much had these women done without so he could eat his fill? Because Kit hadn’t let him go hungry since he got here.

“I’ll get this,” he said, though his arms shook in anticipation of lifting the heavy tub. “And after dinner, I want to see your stores.”

That whipped her around to face him. “Why? It’s not your concern.”

Could a woman be more stubborn? He saw it in the flash of her eyes and the set of her jaw, and he countered it. “It is while I’m eating your food.” He drew her away from the tub, keeping his touch gentle but firm, aware of the anxiety of the two women behind him. “Kit. Let me get this.”

She stepped back and nodded, not meeting his gaze. He turned his energy to lifting the tub.

The thing was damned heavy. He’d known it would be, but hadn’t expected to feel so weak. Now he couldn’t look at Kit, knowing she’d see the strain in his face as he heaved the tub. Mary hurried toward the door to open it. He gave her a brief nod of thanks and stepped into the yard. He saw an indented area of the yard to the right of the door. Probably where she’d dumped it before. How had she managed to carry it so far?

Stumbling short of his goal, he dumped the dirty water halfway between the door and the dip. His arms trembled, weak as blades of grass. He leaned against the wall a moment, regaining his strength, until his ears and the back of his neck chilled from his still-wet hair. He pushed away and walked back into the warm room, where conversation immediately stopped. Kit cast a worried glance in his direction before schooling her expression into that same emotionless one she’d displayed before. Who was that for? Him, or her family?

“What can I do?” He approached the stove, giving her family a wide berth. He glanced at the pots on the stove, one with porridge, again, and another with weak broth. A soup bone sat in the bottom of the pot. How many times had she used that bone? “Haul more water? Wood for the fire?”

She shook her head. “You’ll catch a chill all over again. You have no business going out with wet hair. Sit by the fire until dinner.”

He checked the woodpile. It would hold till after dinner. Maybe she was right. He’d be more use to her after he’d rested and eaten. Right now he was as weak as a kitten. He sat in a chair across from Mrs. Barclay, who had taken up a needle, thread and grey woolen cloth for mending. The girl sat idle. Why didn’t they help Kit? Why did they let her do it all herself? Resentment bubbled before the first pointed question was asked.

“What brings you to Texas, Mr. Watson?” Mrs. Barclay asked sharply.

“Nothing left for me in Louisiana.” Nothing but a big empty house and people who looked at him with sorrow-filled eyes. He hadn’t been able to endure their pity anymore, their cloying need to help, so he’d set off. He wanted to tell Kit he understood loss, but he didn’t want to have that conversation in front of her family.

“Are you one of Mr. Austin’s people?”

“Ma’am, I’m not, but my best friend is. Almanzo Tarleton.”

“He’ll be expecting you, then?” Her voice was sharp, as if she’d be glad to see him go.

“No, ma’am. He has no reason to.” He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, not certain he’d get there. Not caring if he did or not.

Not until he met Kit, who gave of herself to help him.

“So you’re a drifter.” Mrs. Barclay’s disdain was palpable.

“Mother, leave him be.” Kit set two bowls firmly on the table, one in front of Mary and the other in front of him.

Trace pushed his bowl in front of the older woman, who drew back as if he’d insulted her.

“You’re a guest in our house.”

“And where I come from, a man doesn’t eat until the women have been served.”

Kit, returning to the table with two more bowls, smiled. “You say you come from Louisiana?”

He sat back and allowed himself the freedom to look at her. She was so pretty when she smiled, when her eyes lit up like that. “Yes, ma’am, I do. We’re raised right in Louisiana.”

“We’re from Louisiana too.” She took the seat across from him. “Just north of New Orleans.”

They bowed their heads for a blessing, and afterwards Trace gestured to their surroundings with his spoon.

“How long have you been here?”

The smile disappeared, the light in her eyes faded. “Seven months before my husband was killed, three months since.”

Had her husband been gone all that time? What kind of man would leave three women alone for more than a month in this wilderness? She wasn’t helpless, Trace knew that, but she was hungry. “What about the soldiers?”

“The two that remained with us died shortly before—shortly after the others left.”

“And the last time a supply wagon came through?”

She tapped her spoon against her nearly empty bowl. “Longer than I care to remember.”

“And livestock?”

“The soldiers butchered the cattle when they were here. We ate the last chicken last month. She’d stopped laying. We have one milk cow, but she hasn’t given much lately.” Kit dragged her spoon through the porridge. “I can’t bring myself to butcher her. She’s just hungry.”

“And you don’t leave the fort, even to get her grass?”

The girl, Mary, shuddered on the bench beside him. He glanced at her, then back at Kit. She no longer focused on the bowl, but on him, something like hope shining in her eyes.

“It’s too risky being out.”

“Risky how?”

“The Indians come around every couple of weeks or so, probably waiting to see if we’ve died, or left.”

“That’s why you fire the cannon every morning.” He scooped a mouthful of porridge, considering.

She nodded.

“When is the last time you saw Indians?”

She shook her head. “A few weeks, I guess?”

He nodded. “I’ll see about going out tomorrow.”

The table exploded in protests.

“You can’t!”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Mr. Watson, that would be foolish.” This last was from Kit. Her eyes were dark and solemn with concern. “You’ve hardly regained your strength.”

“If you stay here, you’ll starve. The cow needs food, we need food. I’m strong enough to cut grass and maybe go hunting.”

“Hunt what?” she argued. “And who will look out for you? I didn’t nurse you back to health so you could get yourself killed.”

She tossed her spoon down and started to rise, but he caught her wrist, not gently this time. “What’s your plan then, Kit? The supply wagons aren’t getting to you. You won’t leave. Where do you think the food is going to come from? Above?”

“The wagons will come.” She pulled free and stood.

He got to his feet as well. “They’ve forgotten about you. How long since the soldiers left?”

“Nearly four months, but—”

“What were they thinking, leaving three women here alone? If they’ve been gone that long, they aren’t coming back.”

“Mr. Watson!” She cast a warning glance at her mother-in-law and sister. “They’ll come.”

She was keeping hope alive for her family. He understood that. Surely she saw something had to be done.

But clearly she didn’t want to talk about it now, not in front of the other women. He eased toward the door, picking up the bucket on the way. “I’ll get water and firewood, and then I’ll say good night.”

But she’d already turned toward the sink and didn’t look at him as he left.

***

Kit shoved the covers off her bed, picked up her boots, grabbed a blanket and crept out of the room she shared with Agnes and Mary. She’d been stewing since she came to bed. What business did he have wanting to check their supplies and leaving the fort to gather food? Because he was a man? She’d done everything she could to keep her family together.

Almost everything. And still she’d lost her son. Her heart clenched in memory of that ultimate failure.

But she would rather take responsibility for that than give the responsibility to a stranger.

She wouldn’t sleep until she gave Trace Watson a piece of her mind. She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, layered her woolen wrap over that, and then slipped the door bolt as quietly as she could.

The cold night air stung her face as she ran across the yard, but she barely felt it. The heat of anger pulsed through her as she pounded on the door of his room. She shivered as a rustling sounded on the other side. The bolt slid free and the door swung open.

Trace was bare-chested, the still-flickering fire playing over the planes of muscle. His hair was mussed, but his eyes were alert, worried.

“What’s wrong?”

“You have no right.” The words came out on an explosion of breath. “Just because you’re a man and I’m a woman doesn’t mean you can come in here and start making decisions. I have taken care of them since the soldiers left.” She pressed her spread hand over her chest, needing him to understand. “I have kept them safe. They’re my responsibility. You cannot just come here and take over.”

He dragged both hands down his face and blinked slowly. “You came over here to holler at me?”

She shook her head vehemently. She didn’t want him to make light of her concerns. “I need you to see these are not your decisions to make. I’ve been making them and I’ll continue to do what’s best for my family.”

He sighed and caught her arm, pulling her into the room. When he closed the door behind her, the scent of warm sleepy male hit her and his nakedness registered, along with the disarray of his bed. Her heart thundered in her chest. What had she done, coming here? This conversation could have waited for morning. She backed toward the door, but he was so close, she couldn’t open it without bumping into him.

“I’m not trying to take over your family, Kit. I’m trying to give you help. You don’t seem to have a lot of it.”

She squared her shoulders. “Mary’s been sick and Mother has been caring for her.”

“She looked plenty healthy to me. Meanwhile, you’re running yourself into the ground.” He reached for the shirt at the end of the bed and slipped it on. “Let me pay you back for what you’ve done for me by helping you out.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t remember what as she watched his long fingers work the buttons she’d sewn on herself. She shouldn’t have come here. Damn her impulses and scrambled sense. She reached for the door behind her. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I apologize.” Before she could do more than catch a glimpse the surprise on his face, she turned and bolted.

***

She didn’t sleep at all, reliving the sight of Trace’s bare chest and the warmth it had caused to spread deep in her body. She berated herself for these thoughts as she listened to the steady breathing of her mother-in-law and Mary, but she seemed to have lost all control of her own mind.

Trace. Just thinking his name sent a wave of longing through her. Seeing his body reminded her of how lonely she was. Listening to his deep voice at dinner, even as presumptuous as he was, had made her realize how much she missed having a man around. And the smell of him…she lifted her hands to her face and breathed it in. Yes, her soap, but his scent underneath.

He was married, and John had been gone just a few months. She had to put these thoughts out of her head. They were disgraceful, and disrespectful to her husband’s memory.

She rose from bed as the sky began to brighten, wishing she had something to make for breakfast besides porridge. At least she’d get an early start on the bread, and the laundry. That would keep her busy while Trace risked his life to feed her cow.

He knocked on the door as she slid the bread into the oven. Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked over and opened the door to see him standing there with a bucket of water from the well and another of—

“Milk!” Delight raced through her as she reached for the bucket, taking it from him. Not much liquid, but it lay thick and creamy in the bottom of the small bucket.

Her mind raced through all the possibilities. They could put it in their coffee, or she could make butter, or, oh, how she wished she had eggs, she’d make flapjacks. She was so hungry for flapjacks.

She looked up at Trace. The dimples were in full evidence and his eyes were bright with pride. “How did you get it?”

He leaned close, as if sharing a playful secret, filling her senses with his scent again. “I promised her I’d take her out today if she gave me what she had.”

Kit laughed and spun away, feeling a lightness that had been lacking for months. Her first instinct was to beat it down, but she stopped herself. No need to punish herself for finding joy in the prospect of a taste of milk.

“You charm cows into giving up their milk?” she asked him.

“I’m out of practice otherwise.”

Now what did that mean? Despite herself, she glanced over to see him watching her. She swayed toward him against her will, and the bedroom door opened.

“Mr. Watson. You’re up early,” Agnes declared. “Are you leaving today?”

“Not before I get the stores taken care of,” he said easily.

“There’s milk,” Kit announced, holding up the bucket. “Shall we have some in our coffee? I’m afraid there’s not enough to make butter. That would be lovely.”

“Milk!” Pleasure lit Mary’s face as she entered the room. “Oh, yes, please!”

They ate breakfast in a jovial mood. Amazing what a little milk could do to raise their hopes. Kit left Mary and Agnes to take care of the dishes while she accompanied Trace outside to his horse.

“I checked on him yesterday,” Trace said when they entered the stable. He rubbed a hand down the gelding’s neck. “You did a good job of taking care of him too. Thank you. He was a gift.”

From who? Kit wondered, but she’d already revealed too much of herself. She needed to draw back. She probably shouldn’t tell him she’d planned on butchering his horse if he died. “The Indians attack from the southwest, so keep an eye out in that direction. I can keep watch on the wall—”

He shook his head as he hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back, pausing just a beat after, to catch his breath. He straightened, speaking briskly as he cinched the saddle and strapped his rifle to the back. “I can take care of myself.”

Not so soon after he’d been ill. The man should know his own limits. What would she do if anything happened to him? Could she go look for him? “There have been outlaws, too, so any direction is dangerous, but the Indians are the biggest threat. I’ll go fire the cannon—”

“Kit.”

He lifted a finger as if he wanted to touch it to her lips, but let it fall away along with his gaze as his brow furrowed.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

Wishing she could be as certain, she backed away as he led Atrius out of the stable, then out of the fort.

***

Trace knew he probably shouldn’t be thinking about Kit’s soft curves, or the shape of her mouth, or her voice, or anything about her when he was out in the open in enemy territory. But only thoughts of her kept him swinging the scythe when his arm felt like it could drop off. He needed to stay aware that every blow could mask the sound of the enemy approaching.

He hadn’t thought it possible to think of a woman this way after Angelina’s death. He’d loved her with a passion that burned him up from the inside; he hadn’t thought another woman could enflame his thoughts. But Kit was incredible, in a different way from Angelina. Her strength and determination only added to her beauty.

He needed to shut down those feelings. He owed it to Angelina’s memory, and to himself. He’d help Kit and her family, but wouldn’t allow more.

The grass was dry and sharp and cut into his skin as he stacked it on the ground, preparing to bundle it and tie it to Atrius’s hindquarters to carry back into the fort. He’d worked up a sweat despite the chilling wind that bit through his coat. His heart beat faster, unused to the physical labor after being sick for so long, and his lungs had trouble keeping up with his need for air, so he had to rest more often than he was accustomed to doing.

Atrius grazed lazily nearby, not minding the sharp edges of the grass that cut Trace’s skin. Trace kept an eye on his horse, knowing the animal would be alert to danger. He’d considered bringing the cow out as well, but cattle could be damned stubborn when it came to moving, and he might have to get back inside the fort in a hurry.

He had to get these women to safety and civilization. Austin’s colony of San Felipe, maybe—but how? He hadn’t seen any conveyance to carry them, and the walk to the Brazos River would be long and treacherous.

Worse, he hadn’t seen any wildlife since he’d been out here, beyond the occasional duck, and he wasn’t the marksman to get one of those, unless he used Kit’s cannon.

They could kill the cow. He hadn’t butchered an animal before, though he had hunted, but Kit had told him that she couldn’t bring herself to kill the gentle-eyed animal. If he killed their cow, would they be able to eat it?

If he knew more about Texas, he’d know better how to feed them. But hell, nothing was growing out here but this high grass. At least the animals would eat well. Perhaps tomorrow he could go farther afield to see if he could get a deer. Even a scrawny one would be better than what they had now. If he never had porridge again, he’d be a happy man. It sure didn’t last long in the stomach.

Finally he had to admit he couldn’t work any longer. Even the walk back might take too much out of him, and since Atrius was hauling the grass, Trace couldn’t ride. His arms were limp, but he forced his fingers to fold around Atrius’s bridle. He hung on, matching his gait to the horse’s amble.

His legs were shaky when he reached the fort. Kit waited at the gates. Her apron was twisted and wrinkled. Had she been that worried about him? He nodded a greeting, too tired to form words, and headed toward the stables.

“You overdid it.”

He shook his head, but even that was an effort.

She gripped his arm and despite his best effort, he stumbled. There was no place to sit in the stable, so he braced his elbows on the edge of a stall. He could sense her tremors behind him and figured she was fighting the need to say she told him so.

He appreciated her restraint.

“I’ll get the animals taken care of.” Tension vibrated her voice. “You go straight to bed.”

That sounded like heaven, as soon as he got his strength. He had managed to get to the fort before he became as weak as an infant. He could make it a few more steps.

He straightened and slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “Do you have any milk left?”

She frowned. “We started to make butter.”

He drew his hand from his coat and produced four tiny eggs. “Is there something you can do with these? I almost stepped on them. Quail eggs, I think.”

“Oh!”

The delight in her voice sent a shiver of joy down his backbone. She took the eggs from him as if they were gold.

“Oh, I know just what to do! Thank you, Trace!” Careful of the eggs, she flung her other arm about his neck in an exuberant hug. “We’ll have a special dinner! Let me put these away, and I’ll tend to the animals. You have time for a nap. You’ve earned it.” She whirled and hurried toward the kitchen, leaving him grinning like an idiot.

***

“Next time I’m going out with you.” Kit polished off the last of her flapjacks, which didn’t quite live up to her memory. What ingredient had she left out? “If we find enough nests maybe we can have eggs for dinner. Oh, or do you think you could shoot the quail?”

“They’re a bit small,” he admitted, dragging a bite of the not-quite-fluffy pastry through the honey she’d brought out.

“You are not going out there,” Agnes declared, though she hadn’t left a crumb of her own dinner. “Just because nothing happened to Mr. Watson today doesn’t mean nothing will happen the next time. You risk too much.”

“But eggs, Mother!” Kit folded her napkin and leaned back in her chair, her stomach satisfied for the first time in weeks. “And Tra—Mr. Watson said Atrius is a good watchman. As soon as Mr. Watson is feeling more rested, we should go out again.”

Agnes made a sound, the tightness of her mouth making Kit wonder if she’d caught the slip.

“A lot of good his warning will do. A horse can hardly fight beside you, can he? And if he doesn’t give you enough warning, then what?”

“There has to be a way,” Kit said stubbornly.

“There might not be many nests this time of year,” Trace said cautiously. “I might have found the last. And we’re lucky they weren’t rotten.”

Kit’s enthusiasm dimmed. She was just so sick of porridge. “Maybe the cow will start giving milk.”

“She ate enough.” Trace cradled his coffee cup in both hands. “I’ll be cleaning out the stall tomorrow.” He set his cup down and sat back, his attention on Kit. “We need to think how we’re going to leave here. I don’t see a wagon or cart anywhere. How did you ladies get here?”

“The soldiers took one cart, but left us another. It’s outside the walls. It does us no good, since the horse died soon after the soldiers left,” Kit said, every ounce of joy drained. She stood and gathered the plates.

He pushed his chair back from the table and fisted his hands as if he wanted to reach for her. “Why didn’t you leave with the soldiers? Did you know about your husband at the time?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. Couldn’t. Why did he press? “I knew.”

“So why did you stay here, alone?” His voice sharpened. “Why did the soldiers leave you behind?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she walked to the basin. She didn’t talk about Daniel, couldn’t even think about him without her heart breaking in tiny pieces, and she didn’t want to fall apart, not tonight. Why had Trace ruined everything with talk of leaving here?

“I was ill,” Mary offered. “It was my fault. I couldn’t travel, so we told the soldiers to go without us. Two stayed with us, but they were too sick to travel in any case.”

“Brave men,” Trace growled, rising, his attention still on Kit. “To leave three helpless women here in this place.”

That, Kit couldn’t bear. She pivoted, bracing her hands behind her on the basin. “Helpless? Do you think I’m helpless, Trace Watson?”

“No, ma’am.” He spread his hands in front of himself in surrender. “But those men could have done more than showed you how to use a cannon. At the very least they could have sent someone to come back for you. Now I’m thinking if we have a wagon—”

“I’m not leaving.”

He stared, mouth open, midsentence. He closed his mouth, frowning. “You can’t stay here.”

“Who says I can’t?”

He folded his arms. “All right. Why do you want to?”

She couldn’t look into his eyes and lie to him, but she couldn’t tell him the truth, so she turned to the basin. “You can take Mother and Mary. You should take them. But I’m staying.”

Confused, Trace glanced at Mary and Mrs. Barclay, but they offered him no clue, not even meeting his gaze. He dared not touch Kit’s tense shoulders to try to calm her, not as upset as she was—and especially not with her mother-in-law looking on. That he wanted to touch her so badly surprised him. He fisted his hands against the sensation.

“Is there anything else you’d have me do tonight?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. Was she crying? He thought he caught a shuddering breath.

“Kit.”

“No, you’ve done so much already. I thank you.” But she didn’t even glance over her shoulder at him.

“Then I’ll say good night.” He nodded to the other two women and slipped out.

***

A blood-chilling scream woke him in the middle of the night. He’d come awake and was shoving his feet into his boots when someone pounded on his door.

“Get your gun!”

Kit. He lunged for the door, half in one boot, and flung the bolt. She stumbled into the room, looking much as she had last night, hair tumbled, nightgown askew. But this time instead of her eyes flashing fire, they were bright with fear. And she carried her rifle.

“Indians!” she said before he could ask.

Then he heard it, the movement beyond the walls. He grabbed his rifle and the pistol under his cot, then his saddlebag with his ammunition. Heart pounding, he mentally ran through the layout of the fort. Where could he stow her safely?

“Is there a place where you can hide with Mary and Mrs. Barclay?”

She looked at him, askance. “I’ve already put them in the root cellar. I need your help on the wall.”

His help? “No, ma’am. I want you in the root cellar too.”

Her lips pressed together in that stubborn expression he was beginning to know so well. “You can’t do it alone.”

“I can’t do it worrying about you.”

“Trace. Be reasonable.”

How could her voice be so calm when terror squeezed his heart at the thought of what could happen to her? He hadn’t protected Angelina, but could he protect Kit and her family from Indians?

He couldn’t waste time arguing.

“Show me the quickest way up to the wall.”

Without acknowledging the concession he’d just made to her, she turned and hurried back into the yard, heading straight across it. He grabbed her arm, pulling her into the shadows of the wall. He motioned that they’d follow the line of the wall instead of risking themselves out in the open. She nodded but he could sense her impatience. God, did the woman have no fear? He followed her up the stairs to top of the barracks. How would the two of them hold off a band of Indians? He’d never fought Indians before, never fought anything but drunken rich boys in bars in New Orleans. And that had never been life and death.

Kit ducked as she reached the top of the stairs and dropped to her knees. She rested the rifle on the wall and tracked something through her sights before firing. A cry of pain echoed through the cold night. Trace crouched beside her, easing up enough to see over the top of the wall. Dozens of Indians with long bows circled the fort. He muttered a curse that drew Kit’s glance as she reloaded. He brought up his pistol, fired and missed, though his target leapt in shock as the bullet struck the ground in front of him. Kit took another shot—she loaded as quickly as a soldier—and Trace fired his rifle. She hit, he missed again.

“We’ll run out of ammunition before they give up,” she muttered as she reloaded, fired and reloaded again. “We need to get to the cannon.”

“Didn’t bring anything to light it,” he replied, drawing a bead on a particularly tall Indian, shooting, and dropping him in his tracks.

“Go get the piece of rope that I keep near the hearth. Put it to the fire until it smolders and bring it to me.”

He snorted. “I’m not leaving you up here.”

She cast a scornful look at him. “I’m a better shot. Reload your weapons, and they’ll be ready to reload again by the time you get back up here.”

That she was right rankled his pride. He’d never had occasion to become a better marksman. Now he was no help to her unless he did as she asked. He pivoted on the ball of his foot and sprinted for the stairs, taking the flight in three leaps. Bursting through the door of her quarters, he recoiled as she fired his pistol. He looked around, grabbed the smoldering rope from its place near the fire as she fired one rifle, from farther down the wall. She was closer to the cannon.

He raced out the door, not bothering to shut it, and bolted up the stairs as she fired her last shot. He skidded to a halt beside her as she crouched with her back to the wall and began to reload her rifle. He did the same, and they fired them, reloaded and moved in the direction of the cannon.

She loaded the cannon with an efficiency he didn’t expect, even after hearing her fire it every day. When she was done she touched the glowing rope to the fuse and then dropped down beside the barrel, covering her ears. He did the same just as the blast knocked him against the wall. Holy hell. Kit was on her feet before the echo had died, reloading the cannon, as cries of alarm sounded below them.

“Help me turn it,” she ordered.

He scrambled up to help her drag it around so it pointed southwest. She fired again. In the wake of the blast he heard the retreating shouts of the Indians. Kit reloaded and fired two more times before she dropped down against the wall, her head tilted back against it, and looked at him with weary eyes.

He cupped her soot-streaked face in his hand and rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. “You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.” Then he leaned down and kissed her.

She tasted of gunpowder and wood smoke and fear and relief, but mostly she tasted of Kit, and she opened her mouth to him as she slid both arms around his neck, rising up on her knees to get closer. Her mouth was greedy, her teeth pulling on his lower lip, her tongue darting into his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging almost painfully.

Need swamped him. He was so aroused he couldn’t think of anything but getting her beneath him, of tasting every inch of her skin, of feeling her breasts, so soft beneath her night rail, against his chest, in his hands, in his mouth.

Breaking the kiss might bring her back to her senses, but he didn’t want to make love to her here on the wall, in the cold. He wanted to savor every minute, every touch, every stroke.

“Too cold up here,” he murmured in the hollow below her ear. “Inside.”

She nodded, the movement jerky, and pulled away. She had the presence of mind to gather the guns, ammunition and the rope before she led the way downstairs. In moments she’d be in his arms again and he’d be touching her, pleasing her, holding her against him. He shook with anticipation.

She glanced back at him with a chiding expression when she walked through the open door into the now-chilly room.

“I’ll get the fire,” he said, turning to close and bolt the door.

But before he could, Mary popped out of the root cellar a few feet away, a blanket wrapped around herself, eyes alight with fear and excitement. “Is it over?”

Chapter Five

After she’d finally convinced Agnes and Mary that the danger had passed, Kit stepped out of their bedroom and crossed the common room to the stove. Trace sprawled across the narrow bed that had been Mary’s when she was sick, which they hadn’t yet dismantled. His back was against the wall, his booted feet crossed at the ankles as he watched her. She couldn’t meet his gaze. What must he think of her after her behavior on the top of the wall? She’d put her tongue in his mouth and almost climbed on his lap, for heaven’s sake—and him a married man!

“Would you like some coffee to warm you?” She kept her tone prim, to hide the shaking in her voice.

The wooden legs of the cot scraped over the floor as he rose. She stiffened as she sensed the warmth of his body against her back.

“Do you have any whiskey?”

She bent to push aside the fabric surrounding the basin’s legs and grasped the neck of a glass bottle, almost half-empty. He chuckled and reached around her to take it.

“We use it for medicinal purposes,” she said.

“What else?” he drawled. “Cups?”

She took two mugs from the shelf, feeling decadent and silly. But good. For the first time in a long time, good. She turned to face him, tilting her chin up. They’d just battled Indians and won. Temporarily, she was sure, but the relief was still there, and the elation. She was giddy as he poured the whiskey and then saluted her with a cup while handing her one of her own.

“To the bravest woman I know.”

“You don’t know many women,” she chided, but tapped his cup anyway.

“None like you,” he insisted, his gaze steady. He drank.

She did as well, and the alcohol burned the membranes of her throat, the inside of her nose. Perhaps she wasn’t as strong as she thought, not if she gave into her passions so easily. She set the cup down, feeling like a stranger in her own home, in her own body. She didn’t know where to sit, but she couldn’t stand any longer, her legs weak after her adventure on the wall.

She pulled out a chair, but he captured her hand and guided her toward the bed.

She dug her feet in. “Up on the roof, we made a mistake. We weren’t thinking, just feeling.”

“Come sit with me, Kit, that’s all I want. To have you beside me, safe.”

The tone of his voice—so soft and cajoling—convinced her. If she hadn’t wanted to feel his warmth, be reassured by his strength, she could have resisted. He sank to the bed, soft with blankets though they’d removed the mattress and burned it. She retrieved her cup and sat down facing him, cross-legged, with her back to the fire. His breathing changed for an instant and his eyes flicked down, then up again, the heat in them searing. With a gasp of realization that she was still only wearing her thin night rail, she reached for her shawl on the back of a chair. Once securely wrapped, she chanced a glance at him, to see him sipping his whiskey, not looking at her. But when he lowered his cup, she noticed his jaw was tight, as if he was willing himself to hold onto his control. She reminded herself she wanted him to, and the best way was to distract him.

“That many have never come at once before. I wonder if they saw you when you left the fort. No one’s left in a while.”

He shifted to face her. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed her hair back and tucked her shawl more tightly around her. “I don’t know if we convinced them there are more of us than there are. I think that’s the only thing that will keep them away. It would probably be a bad idea to leave the fort again for a while. How long do you think the grass you cut will last?”

“Not a week.”

She looked down into her cup, disappointment a cloud in her mind. “I so looked forward to eggs too.”

“Just a few days. Then we need to think about leaving.”

“I’m not leaving.”

He shifted. “Kit, you know your husband isn’t coming back, don’t you?”

She heard the frustration in his voice but kept her gaze on the liquid in front of her. “I know.”

“Then what’s keeping you here?”

She lifted her chin and looked into those dark, exasperated eyes. “My baby is here.”

He drew in a sharp breath, easing back. “Your baby.”

She nodded. “My son Daniel. He’s buried by the barracks.”

“I didn’t—I’m sorry.” He set his cup on the floor and rested a cautious hand on her knee. “How long ago?”

She looked at the hand, big, strong, capable. Trace was someone she could lean on, if she let herself. “Just after I received word that John died. He had the fever, as you did. Mary caught it, then, too.”

“So he was the reason you didn’t leave with the soldiers.”

“I couldn’t walk away from my child.” Her nose burned with the need to cry, so she sipped her whiskey instead.

“How old was he?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. “I don’t talk about him.” She couldn’t, couldn’t remember his sweet blue eyes, his chubby little cheeks, his reaching arms that would hold onto her neck so tight. She couldn’t remember the games they used to play when he’d go to bed, how she’d nuzzled his little throat until he giggled, how she’d had no joy like that in her life, how no joy could match that again. How no despair could be as deep.

She couldn’t think of the tiny grave she’d had to dig by herself.

“I never got to hold my son.”

The soft rumble of his words surprised the melancholy from her and she whipped her head toward him. He kept his gaze on the fire. “Your son?”

“He died before he was born. I saw him. He was blue and still, and the midwife took him away.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t follow, didn’t stop her, and I never felt him in my arms.”

She covered the back of his hand with hers, linked her fingers through his. “I’m sorry.”

“My wife, Angelina, she’d labored close to three days. It took her strength, and when she heard he was dead, she stopped fighting.”

Her other hand went to her mouth, as if by covering her own she could stop his words. “Trace, no.”

He looked up, his eyes glinting with tears. “I lost her too. I couldn’t bear to be in the place where they’d been, where everything had been so full of hope and happiness, where we planned for the birth of our child. So I left.”

“And came to Texas.”

He nodded, lowering his head again. “And came to Texas.”

“No hope and happiness here.”

“So I thought.”

She snapped her head up to look into his eyes.

“Come here.” He held his arm out, gesturing for her to move closer and tuck against his side, to feel his strength.

She hesitated only a moment, needing to be held so bad, and eased cautiously against him, her head against his shoulder so she could feel the beat of his heart in that big chest. He closed his arm around her, warming her, stroking his hand down her hair in a soothing motion.

“Do you talk about her?” she asked. “Angelina?”

He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Haven’t been around people since she died.”

“Would it hurt you? To talk about her?”

“You want to hear about her?” This time surprise tinted his voice.

“I’m trying to imagine her. I’ve been trying to, since you—called me her name.” Since he kissed her. “I wondered what kind of woman would hold your heart though you’d left her behind.”

He tightened his arm around her. “She was a beautiful Cajun girl, just this amazing beauty, dark-haired, with an…inner sureness. She could talk to anyone about anything, and made people feel at ease. People wanted to be around her, women and men, even children. We couldn’t walk in the park without stopping every dozen steps because she knew someone, or wanted to meet someone. She never did things part-way. She threw her whole self into any project she set her mind to, and it came out beautifully every time. She had a golden touch. And she had a beautiful voice. She could sing anything. She would have been an amazing mother. Our son would have been reading by the time he was talking.”

His voice warmed as he spoke, and she could picture him in awe of and in love with his wife. She imagined him devastated by her death. And she wondered how she measured up to such a paragon.

That thought surprised her, and she pulled away, as if putting distance between her body and his would jolt her heart into realizing that now was not the time to let her emotions lead. They’d both lost much in the past few months. Her heart hadn’t had time to recover from her losses. She couldn’t open herself to that pain again.

But he curved his arm just a little more securely about her, holding her to him, stroking her hair against her head. The movement soothed her. Her limbs grew heavy, her breathing slowed, her eyelids drifted closed.

“Get some sleep, Kit,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. “I’ll keep watch.”

For the first time in months, she let someone else take over, and she slipped into sleep.

***

“What the devil is going on out here?”

Kit jolted awake at the shrill question from Agnes. Several things registered at once—the brightness of the room that told her it was full daylight, her mother-in-law standing in the bedroom doorway…the warmth of Trace’s body against her back and his arm across her waist. She pushed upright, and his arm dragged away as he shifted, the change in his breathing signaling that he was waking.

And that he realized, as she did, that her night rail was bunched up and her bottom was very snug against his hips. Very snug. More than his breathing was changing. At least, at some point during the night, he’d pulled the quilt over them.

Which damned them in Agnes’s eyes.

Her face heated, remembering what had almost happened between them last night, what very well might have if they hadn’t talked instead. Her heart squeezed at the memory of their conversation, at the mixture of grief and pride she’d heard in his voice last night.

Trace tensed behind her and rolled off the bed in a single movement, but Kit couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t be sure what emotions that would reveal—either to him or to Agnes.

“Nothing happened, Mother,” she said wearily, tugging her shawl around herself and swinging her bare legs off the bed. She hated the shame that burned in her veins. True, they hadn’t done anything wrong, but she’d wanted to. God, she’d wanted to. “We were just tired. I didn’t want him to go back to the barracks in case the Indians returned. We fell asleep keeping watch.”

Agnes pursed her lips, dragging her gaze up and down Kit’s body, looking for signs of love play. Kit resisted lifting her hand to her throat, where she could still feel the rasp of Trace’s whiskers.

Agnes strode into the room, insinuating herself between Kit and Trace, who moved toward the door and picked up the water bucket. Kit still couldn’t look at him. After he had slipped out, Agnes planted herself in front of the door and folded her arms.

“I told you not to be alone with this man. What does this say about your feelings for my son?” She flipped a hand toward the yard. “Do you disrespect him so much that you forget him before he’s a year in the ground?”

Kit drew her shoulders up and bit back the resentful retort that hovered always in the back of her mind, the thought that he’d brought her here and abandoned her. He could have left her in New Orleans, where at least she’d be around civilized people. She’d have real food instead of porridge. She’d have her mother and doctors and no angry Indians and not have to depend on her own wits. She wouldn’t have had to dig her own son’s grave, could have given him a proper burial in a church, in a cemetery, if he’d died at all.

“I did nothing to disrespect John or myself.” Kit slipped on her stockings, then reached for her boots. More resentment bubbled when she saw the fire had died down. Though Agnes, and Mary beyond her, were fully dressed, neither had started it again—or breakfast either, for that matter. “I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Trace returned, carrying the water to the stove and stoking the fire. If Kit hadn’t already begun to feel tenderness for him, that act would have won her over. He saw what needed to be done and did it. Kit snatched her attention from him and faced her mother-in-law.

Something besides anger played behind Agnes’s eyes, something beyond disappointment in her. Kit bit her lower lip, afraid of what Agnes might read in her own expression, because when she looked at Trace, she had one primary emotion.

Longing.

“You need to get dressed,” Agnes prompted.

But Kit was unwilling to leave Trace to her mother-in-law’s wrath, so she crossed the room to start the stove for the loathed porridge. She inspected the amount of oats in the jar and of flour in the tin. Not much at all. She’d have to check the storeroom, though she knew every last grain remaining. They wouldn’t last until spring. She rubbed the heel of her hand between her eyes.

“I’m going hunting today,” Trace announced.

Her joy evaporated. She spun toward him. “No! You can’t! The Indians—”

“We need the food, Kit. If I can’t find something, I’ll at least bring more food back for the animals. If the cow stops giving milk again, well, at least she won’t be too thin to eat.”

“No!” Mary cried. “You can’t butcher her.”

“I will if I need to.” He turned toward the girl. “It’s a long way until spring.”

“You need not stay, Mr. Watson,” Agnes said. “We managed fine on our own, and you eat more than the three of us together.”

That wasn’t true. Kit’s heart ached to see the flush of shame staining Trace’s cheeks.

“I intend to do my part, ma’am. I’m not leaving three women out here on the frontier.”

The unspoken finish to his declaration was “like John did.”

“Trace, you can’t go off by yourself,” Kit protested softly. She needed him here.

His gaze met hers, his brown eyes warm, as if he understood her fear. “You know I have to.”

Someone had to. She tilted her head, feeling just a touch of lightness in her soul. “Maybe I should go. I’m a better shot.”

He gifted her with a dimpled smile. “You are at that, but my horse knows me. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

He gave her a nod and was gone. Every ounce of will was required to keep her at the stove as she heard Atrius’s hoofbeats ride out.

The tasks that usually busied her throughout the day were interminable. She didn’t hear any of what Mary chattered about as they laundered and cooked and sewed, because her ears strained for the sound of horses, or gunfire, or any sign that he was coming back.

“Are you in love with him?”

Mary’s question broke through Kit’s reverie. “Am I what?”

“Are you in love with Mr. Watson? He’s very handsome, now that he’s shaved, and he’s brave too. Are you in love with him? Wouldn’t you have to be, to let him curl up against you like that? You looked so content.”

Kit shook her head sharply. She had been content, and secure, too, wrapped in his arms. But she couldn’t confess such a thing to her young sister-in-law. What would the girl think of her? “I don’t love him. Of course I don’t. I don’t even know him.” Feeling safe with a man, feeling as if she could trust him wasn’t the same thing as being in love. Neither was craving his touch, his smile. Was it? She forced a smile to cover her babbling. “Have you been reading my novels?”

Mary dipped her head, a smile playing on her own lips. “Perhaps. But you have to admit, he’s very handsome, and it’s nice to have a man around again. He makes me feel safe.”

There was her answer. If he caused the same feelings in Mary, it couldn’t be love. Still, she wished he’d hurry back. She didn’t care if he brought food, as long as he returned whole.

When he hadn’t returned by late afternoon, she started pacing the floors. Her mind raced through every possibility. Had the Indians captured him? Outlaws? Had he gotten lost? Had he been hurt?

Had he decided not to come back?

As much as she didn’t want to think he would abandon them, she couldn’t have blamed him if he had. They were nothing to him. He didn’t need to stay here and starve. He had every right to go.

Still, fear tightened her chest. She resisted the urge to go to his room to make sure he hadn’t taken his belongings.

Then she saw movement on the horizon. Her heart turned over and she leaned on the wall, as if leaning those few inches would help her see farther. Was it him? Karankawa? Brigands? The sun was already sinking, making shadows stretch, distorting her perception. One man with a long shadow, or many men? Once again, she hadn’t brought her rifle. She hesitated a moment, then ran down for it. By the time she reached the top of the wall again, Trace and Atrius were close enough to identify.

Something was draped over Atrius’s rump.

Excitement surged through her. Relief and joy weakened her knees. Was Mary right? Was she falling in love with Trace Watson?

She had the presence of mind to scan the area for any other signs of life before she raced down the stairs and out the big wooden doors toward him. He was farther out than she thought, but when he saw her, he kicked Atrius into a lope.

Breathless, he grinned as he reined in beside her. He swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, his hand curled around the saddle horn. She thought, for a breathless minute, that he might kiss her, but he didn’t touch her, instead backing toward Atrius’s rump. She followed his movement.

An animal wasn’t draped there, only more grass. Better grass, but grass. Not meat. Not food. Disappointment slammed into her, and she willed her stomach not to growl in protest. She couldn’t let Trace see her reaction. He had to be disappointed himself.

“You’re safe,” she said instead.

“Yeah. I didn’t see anyone.” He looped Atrius’s reins around his hand and started for the fort. She fell into step with him on the other side of the horse. “I rode for a long time, toward the Austin colony. We can make the trip, Kit.”

She stiffened. “Trace.”

“We need to go. I found some deer, but they were dead. Diseased or something. That worries me.”

“We have the wagon, but no team.”

“Atrius can pull it.”

She shook her head, thinking of the rickety two-wheeled wagon, meant to be pulled by at least two animals. “It will ruin him.”

Trace’s mouth tightened as he considered. “We’ll walk when we can. It will take a long time. But he’s strong. He can take it.” He stopped to face her, and slid his hand down her arm to her hand. “Can you?”

No. She didn’t say it, didn’t want him to know she was thinking it. But he did, apparently, because he cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face to look into her eyes.

“You have to go on.”

“Why?” She backed away, breaking the contact. “I don’t want to go on, live the rest of my life with the memory of burying my child and then leaving him.”

Sorrow creased his forehead and he moved toward her, catching both her hands in both of his, not allowing her to escape him this time. The leather of the reins was warm in his palm. She pulled back but he didn’t let her go.

“Trace, please.”

He released one hand to curve his around the back of her neck. “I don’t know what that must have been like, Kit, and I won’t pretend. But you’re young and—”

She did pull free then, and turned away. “Says the man who ran away when his family died.”

Sorrow darkened his eyes. “I’m learning as I go. Maybe I needed to get away to see that. Maybe you have to get away too.”

She folded her arms about herself, hugging her elbows. She felt so cold, and not because of the wind. “If I leave him here, he’ll be forgotten.”

“What?”

She waved her hand at the fort, not expecting him to understand. His wife and child were likely in the cemetery, with a stone marking their graves, blessed by a priest. “No one will come back here after we’re gone. No one will know my child is here.”

“He isn’t here, Kit. Don’t you believe he’s in heaven?”

She prayed every night, but the act and the emotion were separate. “I want to. But the part of him that grew in my body, Trace. That part of him is here.”

She let herself forget the danger that surrounded them, just for a moment, and sagged against him, let him wrap his arms around her, smooth her hair, murmur soothing noises. Allowing him to hold her up felt so good. So good.

“You’ve done so much to keep them safe, to keep them together.” His words penetrated the haze of her tears, vibrated beneath her cheek. “You know this is what we need to do.”

“I’m afraid.” But she wouldn’t place the burden of leaving her behind on Trace.

He chuckled. She drew away to frown up at him.

“I’ve never met a woman less afraid than you.”

“I do what I have to do. And I suppose this is something else I have to do.” Leave her child behind. She suppressed a shudder of pain as she stepped back. She couldn’t look at him now, couldn’t show him that weakness. “I’ll show you the wagon. We can leave as soon as you think it’s safe.”

Chapter Six

Kit’s heart did a little kick when Trace walked through the door of their rooms, like he belonged, like he’d always been there. She drew a deep breath, inhaling his scent, shivering as it tickled places deep inside her. The memory of his arms around her made her ache to step into them once again, but she shook off the desire to lean on him. She turned to the table with the pan of toasted bread and set it in front of Mary.

“How does the wagon look?” she asked as Trace cleaned up at the basin with water he’d brought in.

He turned a towel over in his hands and rested his hip on the basin as he leveled his gaze at her. “It needs some work to make it that many miles, but I think we can leave by week’s end.”

“Leave?” Agnes’s voice rang through the room. “We’re leaving?”

“We can’t stay.” Kit attempted to keep her tone reasonable, though panic threatened to overwhelm her every time she thought about leaving the fort, never to return. “There’s no food, no wildlife. We have to go.”

“But you didn’t want to go.”

“We couldn’t go before.” Kit turned back to the stove, unwilling to let Agnes see her own doubts. “We didn’t have the means. Now we have Trace’s horse.”

“What about the Indians?” Agnes lowered her voice on the last word. “Did you take them into account?”

Kit suppressed a shudder of fear. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on that danger. She hadn’t let herself travel beyond these walls in her mind’s eye. Walking through the doors would be the hard part. If they were captured by the Karankawas—well, starving might be preferable. “Of course we took them into account,” Kit murmured. “But it’s either risk that or starve.” She addressed Trace, who’d taken his place at the table. “We’ll have to cook what we can to take with us. And find something to shelter us in the wagon.”

He curved his hand around his mug of water. “I don’t suppose you have bedrolls.”

“We could make them, if there’s time.” She sat across from him. How could she feel so afraid and so safe at once? As terrifying as it was to put her future in his hands, it was also a relief.

He nodded, waiting his turn as the women selected their toasted bread before leaning over to claim his own. “Good idea. And find anything we can carry water in. We’re only taking what we need. We’ll be walking most of the way, but I don’t want to make the wagon too heavy for Atrius to pull.”

Agnes’s head snapped up. “What about my china dishes? They belonged to my grandmother, came with her from France!”

Trace shook his head. “You can send soldiers back for it later, but we can’t bring it with us now. We have to be frugal. Food, something to keep us warm, water.”

“How long do you think it will take us to reach the Austin colony?” Kit preferred to think about the practicalities and not the what-ifs. The what-ifs could make her insane, make her too afraid to walk through those doors no matter what fate awaited her here.

He lifted his shoulder. “Not exactly sure how far we are. Two weeks, maybe.”

Two weeks of being out in the open, three women and a man, four guns, one horse. If anything happened to Atrius, what would happen to them? No. No what-ifs. They would reach San Felipe safely and plan their next step from there.

“Can we bring Bessy?” Mary asked.

Trace’s eyebrows quirked. “Who’s Bessy?”

“The cow,” the women said together.

Kit held her breath as Trace considered. She hated to admit it, but she was attached to the cow, with her big gentle eyes and soft moo and uncomplaining demeanor.

Trace looked from Mary to Kit, then shrugged. “We’ll see how far she can make it, but once she starts slowing us down, we’ll cut her loose. She’ll have plenty to eat out there.”

“Or she’ll be eaten by the Indians,” Mary muttered, not liking his response.

Maybe that was why the Indians had attacked the other night. Maybe they were hungry too, unable to find any game, and had come looking for food. Now there would be no walls between her family and the enemy. Kit shuddered and rose to take her plate to the sink.

Trace rose too. “I’ll take care of the animals and draw some water for tonight. You need anything else before I turn in?”

She saw the circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Going hunting today must have been stressful for him, out there on his own, knowing he needed to bring back food. He hadn’t fully recovered from his illness. Was he pushing too hard? Could she make him stop? She didn’t think so. “No, I think we’re fine.”

He glanced past her to check the wood on the hearth and nodded. His gaze lingered on Kit a moment before he said, “Okay, then. Good night, ladies.”

Before Kit could pull herself out of the warming effect of his gaze, Agnes whirled on Kit. “Did you let him talk you into this?”

Kit couldn’t afford to let Agnes talk her out of this decision. She knew it wouldn’t take much effort, even though she knew leaving was the practical thing to do. “We’re hungry, Mother.” She reached for the older woman’s plate out of habit. “The food is running out.”

“Thanks to him.” Agnes jerked a hand toward the door.

Kit stacked on Mary’s plate too. “He’s only been here a little more than a week. We were low on supplies before that.”

“So we’ll risk being killed by Indians or the men who killed my son?”

Kit turned to the sideboard. “Trace went out today and didn’t see anyone.”

“So that means it’s safe? And when did you start calling him by his given name?”

Kit shook her head, unwilling to rise to the bait, but Agnes didn’t let go.

“Are you planning to replace my son with this man?”

Kit lifted her head and held back her weary sigh. “I’m not planning on replacing John. But Trace has our best interests in mind. I trust him.”

“I don’t. You shouldn’t either. You should respect my son’s memory more, as I did his father’s.” Agnes pivoted and left the room, slamming the bedroom door.

Kit fought frustrated tears as she finished the dishes. The thought of traveling to the Austin colony terrified her. When they’d traveled here from Louisiana, they’d had a company of soldiers and a good store of food—dried meats and beans and rice. This time they’d only have bread and porridge. She might have a few beans remaining. She’d have to check. That would be good travel food, would keep them warm. The middle of January was cold even in Texas, but maybe the weather would keep them safe from marauders.

She needed Trace’s reassurance that everything would be all right. She needed his strength. She hadn’t realized how she’d come to look forward to sitting with him when he was ill. But now he was well enough that going to his room alone could be considered scandalous, if they were in society.

Kit couldn’t convince herself that it mattered. She wanted to be near him.

She reached for her wrap by the door. “I’m going to go check in the store room, then make some plans with Mr. Watson.”

“You mean Trace,” Mary chided.

Kit almost changed her mind when she saw the knowing look on the girl’s face. The girl would jump to romantic conclusions despite whatever excuse Kit gave her. He was hale and hearty and very much a man. But she’d made her decision and didn’t have the willpower to talk herself out of it. She’d made the choice last night when the Indians attacked. She just hadn’t had the courage to act.

“I’ll be back later,” she told Mary, and bolted.

Kit nearly lost her nerve when she reached his door. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and knocked, barely hearing the sound above the beating of her own heart. A second later, he unbolted the door. For a moment, her mind blanked as she stared at the expanse of muscular chest at her eye level, but she gave herself a mental kick and lifted her gaze to his face. His expression was tight with concern.

“Indians?” he asked.

She shook her head, pushing her hair back with a shaking hand. “I was thinking, maybe, we should think about our route. Do you have a map?”

“A map?” He scrubbed his hand over his face wearily, still leaning on the door.

He was exhausted. She was foolish for being here. But she couldn’t talk herself into walking away.

“You came here from Louisiana, heading for San Felipe. Did you have a map?”

“Um, yes. I do.” He stepped back, motioning her inside. “Sorry. You must be cold.”

She hadn’t noticed, not until he closed the door behind her. Her nerves jumped as he slipped past her to the bed.

Why was she here? Tomorrow would be more acceptable. They could sit at the table and make their plans in the daylight.

“I’m sorry. You’re tired.” She reached back for the door just as he turned from the bed, holding a blanket out with both hands.

She ducked her head as he folded it around her shoulders and stood for a moment, smoothing the rough fabric down her arms. He smelled so good now, like grass and man. Unbidden, his taste flooded her mouth, the taste of his tongue, of his desire.

She looked up and saw the darkness, the awareness, in his eyes. He had to be curious about why she’d come. Would he guess?

“I’ll get the map,” he murmured, turning away.

Kit sat on the wooden chair he’d moved to the end of the bed and fussed with the blanket—truthfully, she wasn’t cold—while watching him through her lashes. He moved with such grace, all lean muscle as he bent to pick up his saddlebag and swung it on the bed. He flipped open the pack and thumbed through before drawing out the folded parchment and a shirt.

“Not sure how accurate it is.” He drew the shirt over his head and sat on the bed before he spread the map on his lap. “I circled some sloughs on the way, but I don’t remember crossing this river, and I’m pretty good with directions.”

Her gaze followed the line he drew with his finger over the squiggles of ink on the parchment.

“Do you remember crossing a river when you came?” he asked.

“We came by boat to Matagorda and came north. From what I’ve seen of Texas rivers, they aren’t very deep, nothing like the Mississippi.”

“So we can ford them.”

She shivered. “In this weather?”

He scrubbed his hand down his face. “Kit, we don’t have a choice. We can’t stay.”

“It’s hard to think about. We’re safe here. Who knows what can happen to us out there?”

Trace shifted and curved his hand over her cheek, drawing her gaze to his. “I’ll keep you safe, Kit. I swear it.”

She could have looked away then, could have pulled back, excused herself, and left. But what she wanted was his assurance, more than his words. She needed to feel his strength, needed to feel safe. So she didn’t look away and watched the flicker of awareness light his eyes, part his lips.

Confusion, understanding, then concern reshaped his features.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Tonight it is.”

He hesitated only a moment, then cupped his hand around the back of her head, bringing her face up for his kiss.

His mouth was softer than it had been last night, sweeter, as if he was afraid he’d scare her off with his need. He teased her lips open with his tongue, and she let her own toy with his, find the taste of him, savor it. Gliding her hands up his broad chest, she rested her palm over the thud of his heart, which was racing just like hers.

He slid his hand down the curve of her back to stop just above her bottom, bringing her closer. His arousal grew against her belly, and her hunger intensified. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin, wanted to touch his skin again. Her eyes drifted shut at the memory of those broad naked shoulders, the flexing of muscles in his arms. She wanted to feel them around her. She drew back and unbuttoned the top of her dress. Her movement riveted his gaze.

She reached up to let her hair tumble down around her shoulders. With a guttural sound, he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her onto his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs, his hands twining in her hair as he brought his mouth down hard on hers.

Good. Good. The words played over in her mind as she gave herself to the kiss, letting her tongue meet his, twine with his, absorbing the taste of him, the power, the passion. Passion that burned everything else away—the past, the future, worry, guilt—leaving only the present. His breathing was heavy, the sound filling her ears above her own heartbeat, above her own little needy whimpers. She measured the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands. The warmth of his skin permeated her own through the fabric of his thin shirt. He tugged her closer on his lap so that her legs parted around his hips. She shifted to feel his arousal against her thigh and he groaned, sliding his hand down to her thigh, over her skirt, holding her still.

He broke the kiss to scrape his teeth over her jaw before dragging suckling kisses from beneath her ear to the neckline of her dress, finding every nerve in between alert and eager for more. She craned her neck to encourage him, and he slid back up, adding his tongue, tasting her. A flood of passion coursed through her and she curled her hands through his hair, guiding him.

He chuckled against her skin.

“What? What is it?” she asked breathlessly. Had she done something wrong?

“I should have known you’d want to be the boss here too.”

She stiffened. “I don’t.”

He smoothed her hair from her face with both hands. “It’s not a bad thing, Kit. Not if you know what you want.”

“I know what I want,” she assured him.

Amusement lit his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, you do.”

“I want to feel your skin.”

The amusement darkened into hunger as she busied her fingers at the buttons of his shirt, spreading the fabric, her gaze on the hard muscles of his chest. Hands splayed there, she leaned forward and imitated what he’d done to her, taking his earlobe between her teeth, drawing a gasp from him, pleasing herself for having that power. She touched her tongue to the hollow just below his ear, then nibbled her way down the line of his throat. She must be doing something right because he tossed his head back, his breathing deeper, his arousal growing more insistent. She licked his skin and his groan vibrated beneath her lips. Then his hands tightened on her waist and he pulled back, his own fingers clumsy on the buttons of her dress. She pushed his hands away, aware of his smirk—yes, she was taking charge—and unbuttoned her own dress to her waist, leaving the fabric drooping, inviting his touch.

He slid his hands inside, over her chemise at her waist, then up to cup her breasts. She let her head fall back as he held them, his thumbs circling her nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. He lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, then down to the swell of her breast, before drawing her nipple between his lips.

Pleasure washed through her, from his warm wet mouth to the core of her, the part of her she never thought about. Now she couldn’t think of anything else. She wanted to touch him, wanted to convey her urgency to him. She threaded her fingers through his hair. He opened his mouth wider, at the same time dragging the fabric of her chemise down with his finger, baring her breast. He brought her deeper into his mouth, his tongue curling around her, drawing on her. Her whole body reacted. His name escaped her lips on a moan, and he dropped his hands to her hips again, pulling her flush against him. She cursed the bunched fabric of her skirt that kept her from feeling him as she bumped her hips against his.

He stood, holding her against him so she had to wrap her legs around him. He turned and lowered her to the bed, coming down over her.

Kit reached for him, curving her hands around his strong neck as he slipped his fingers beneath her skirt, under the leg of her pantaloons, over the sensitive skin of her thigh, where the skin jumped beneath his callused touch. His gaze met hers as he coasted his fingertips over the soft skin to the curls at the apex of her thighs, then deeper, sliding between her legs. Her head fell back as he caressed the slick flesh, up and down, and her entire body tightened in anticipation of the pleasure he promised.

He slid one finger into her, and another, only a little way. She shifted, her body resisting the invasion. He murmured something as he braced on one arm over her, and his thumb circled at the center of her pleasure. Her body tensed like a bowstring and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, waiting.

“Open your eyes, Kit. Look at me.”

She did, though it took effort. He leaned closer, trailing his lips down her cheek to the corner of her mouth, then back to her jaw, and he slid his touch deeper. He kissed the swell of her breast until her nipple rose to entice his mouth, and he pushed deeper still. He captured her nipple between his lips and she arched her hips toward his touch, moving against him, pushing against his hand that curved around the most intimate part of her.

He lifted his head from her breast and watched her as his thumb circled that magic place, as his fingers played inside her body, as she moved into his touch like a wanton, the pleasure building, tightening everything in her until she thought she would snap, before his thumb gave her a gentle brush that sent her over the edge, flying apart, knowing he would catch her.

She floated back to herself, sprawled on the bed beneath him, his gaze intense as he watched her. The blush spread all over her body when he tugged her pantaloons down her legs. Then his hand went to the front of his trousers and unfastened them. His arousal thrust out, large and blunt and eager. He sat back to shed his trousers and the shirt she’d already unbuttoned, then he turned to her, magnificent in his nakedness, the firelight casting shadows over the planes and ridges of muscle.

“Will you take off your dress? I want to see you.”

He’d seen all the intimate bits of her naked, she wanted to say, but could already imagine the slide of his skin against hers and hungered for it. She sat up, trapped a moment by the bunching of her skirt under her, and pulled the dress over her head.

His reverent gaze was fastened on her breasts. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and parted her legs around his hips before lying over her.

He was so big, his shoulders blocked the light from the fire and took up the width of the cot. The idea of his large sex entering her body, pushed by his weight, froze her in panic. He eased back and frowned.

“What is it?”

“I need to be in control.”

“I know that.” Confusion creased his brow.

“Now. Can you—will you let me?”

An unidentifiable emotion erased the confusion and he flipped so that he was on his back and she was over him, straddling his thighs. “Good?” he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

“I think so.”

He was beautiful himself, and she dragged her hands over the planes of his chest, over his flat stomach, following the line of hair to his sex. She didn’t stop to think about it before she trailed her fingertips up its length and then closed her hand around him to slide back down.

His groan filled the room. “No teasing,” he managed.

“All right.” She shifted to her knees, bringing the blunt tip of him to her opening. “Slow, all right?”

He gritted his teeth so hard the tendons in his neck stood out. “All right.”

She let him guide her hips as she took him into her body, the width of him stretching her, the length of him filling her, her own body so slick with desire that pleasure surpassed pain. Already she could feel contractions of pleasure tighten her flesh around him, and she took more of him. She opened her eyes and leaned over his chest as he pushed until he was seated to the hilt, her body stretched around him like a glove, pleasure twinging through her.

“Will you move?” he asked. “Can you? I need you to, Kit.”

She needed to also, to find that point of pleasure that would send her flying again. With one hand braced on the windowsill and the other on his chest, she shifted her hips, sliding up and down the length of him, her body squeezing, protesting his absence before welcoming him into her again.

Her rhythm was erratic, but he guided her with his hands on her hips. He sat up, bringing her against him, as he buried his face in her throat, teeth and stubble and lips and tongue heightening her desire. He cupped her breast, his thumb flicking, and she moved harder against him, wanting the pleasure he promised, needing it.

“Will you let me take over?” he murmured against her skin. “I need to be deeper. I need to—”

“Yes. Yes. Please, Trace.”

He tucked her hips against his and tilted her onto her back, driving into her body, stilling a moment when she whimpered. She reassured him with kisses, her hands in his hair, down his back, closing over his buttocks as she lifted her hips into his, matching his rhythm. The pressure built, every stroke sending sparks through her blood, igniting her nerves. Finally she cried out, her head back, her fingers digging into his muscles, her body clenching around his until she felt him follow her with a groan of his own.

He collapsed over her like a sweaty blanket, and she felt the aftershocks of his pleasure and hers where they joined.

Finally he shifted, easing onto his side, still pressed along her body on the narrow cot. She turned to face him, resting her hands on his damp chest, her thumbs toying with the light hair there. Her whole body hummed with the pleasure, with the warmth of his hands, his body against hers. He smoothed her hair, brushing his lips over her forehead, his hands resting on her naked back as his breathing eased. She wanted to spend the night with him, wanted to wake up with him and do this all again.

Heaven help her, was she in love with him?

She looked up into his face, at the curving lips, the gentle brown eyes. Oh, stupid, stupid girl. She was. And loving anyone was going to open her up to pain all over again. She’d barely recovered from last time. She should run. She should get up and get dressed and go back to her own bed.

So why couldn’t she make herself? Instead, she nestled closer, listening to the beat of his heart, his contented breathing, and let herself doze.

***

Trace heard her breathing even out, felt her body relax, and tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Last night, he’d been primed. The attack, the danger…he’d wanted to celebrate their victory in her arms. All day, when he’d been wandering the plains, he’d thought about her mouth and her body and her spirit. He thought about her sorrow, too, the heartbreak he’d never suspected because she was so headstrong and determined. While she’d filled his thoughts, he’d assumed their opportunity had passed, since privacy would be non-existent. He never thought she’d come to him.

He never thought she’d give herself so completely to the act. The memory aroused him all over again, when he’d thought her energy had completely drained him.

Her mother-in-law would throw a hissy if Kit didn’t get back, though. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then to her cheek to wake her. She moved against him sinuously, those beautiful full breasts against his chest making him hard. She turned her mouth to his chest, kissing softly, her hands sliding around his back to bring herself closer to him. She lifted her face and he didn’t even try to stop himself from kissing her, his hand gliding down her side, over the soft skin of her hip to urge her thigh over his hip, opening her to him.

Her eyes widened in alarm for just a bit, and then understanding, then pleasure. He was able to enter her, but not deeply enough, not until she rose up on her elbow, urging him onto his back and straddling him, bringing him deep, hard, her movements slow and deliberate. Her tight, slick body gripped him and then released him in a rhythm that spun the pleasure out, so that every stroke was a pleasure of its own, arousing and satisfying at once. Between her braced arms her breasts swayed with her movements, and he cupped one, caressing it briefly before sliding down her stomach to touch her sex, to touch that little bundle of flesh above where their bodies joined.

He watched the slow slide of himself disappearing into her a moment, the sight making everything in him go tense with the need to pound into her body, to bring her to pleasure, to find his own. Instead, he parted her sex and stroked that little button. She clenched around him, growing wetter with each stroke, her movements growing erratic as she braced for the climax. He watched her body bow and her brow furrow, but as the nub softened beneath his touch, pleasure washed over her face, relaxing it, brightening it. Her sex clenched around him, pulsed, throbbed. He grasped her hips then and drove up into her soft flesh, over and over until he found his own release and gave into it with a shout, emptying into her.

She leaned down to capture his mouth, drawing him into a kiss as the intensity faded, leaving only a delicious languor.

But this time when he slid out of her body, she climbed to her feet. He was gratified to see her shaking legs and reached to pull her back onto the cot with him. She pushed his hands away affectionately and picked up her dress.

“I need to get back.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go.” She slipped into her chemise and wriggled until it fell into place, then reached for her dress, flashing him a regretful smile. “But I can’t hurt Agnes like this. She still mourns John, and I should too. I just can’t anymore.”

He wanted to ask why, but he didn’t want to talk about her dead husband tonight, or his dead wife. He’d managed to forget all of that in the hour she’d been here. “Will you come back tomorrow night?” he asked.

She dropped her dress over her head and held his gaze while she buttoned it, then tugged her pantaloons into place under the skirt. “I want to.” She stepped toward the bed and curved her hand over his jaw, looking into his eyes before dropping a sweet kiss to his lips. She scooped her wrap from the floor, tossed it over her shoulders and hurried out, making him feel lonelier than he had in months.

Chapter Seven

The next few days were consumed with preparing for the trip and not thinking about the past or the future. Every night Kit made an excuse to slip over to Trace’s room, and she had stopped thinking she was fooling anyone. She had stopped caring. He made her feel, which was at once scary and liberating.

Two nights after their first time, she snuggled against him in her favorite position, one leg around his thigh, her cheek and hand on his chest as he stroked her hair.

“So everything should be ready to go by mid-morning?” she asked.

“If we get an early start. You got the bedrolls made for you and your family?”

“Bedrolls, hardtack. The food’s ready, and as much water as we can carry. The wagon’s in good shape?”

“As safe as I can make it. I can’t see your mother-in-law sleeping on the ground. How did you manage when you came out here?”

She nestled closer as a chill swept over her, and he tightened his arm around her. “Oh, the soldiers were very solicitous of us, made it as comfortable as they could. We didn’t walk a step if we didn’t want to.”

He chuckled softly. “She’s going to hate me, then.”

“Very likely she already does.” She eased onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I hate that this is over.”

His breath caught for a second. “What?”

“This.” She swept her hand across his chest. “We can’t be doing this as we travel, and we certainly can’t be doing this when we reach the colony. Certainly you signed some kind of moral agreement when you signed up with Mr. Austin? Before you decided to come here?”

“No, because I’m joining my friend, remember? I don’t have a grant of my own.” His voice was tight. “Do you think this is immoral?”

She shifted away, hating that her off-hand remark would drive a wedge between them. Surely he had to know this was over, that society would frown on their illicit relationship. As pleasurable as it was, as happy as it made her, they couldn’t continue. “It’s certainly against everything I was taught, giving myself to a man who’s not my husband.”

He sat up, the lines of his body tense. “You came to me, Kit. You knocked on my door, knowing I was alone, knowing I wanted you.”

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, bringing the quilt with her. The chill in the room was evident without the heat of his body against her. “I wanted you, as well. Why are we fighting?”

He dropped his feet to the floor and glared. “Because you look at this as a sin!”

“It is a sin!” She shoved her hair from her face with a shaking hand. “Your wife, my husband, they haven’t even been gone a year.”

His mouth twitched and eyes darkened at the mention of Angelina, a subject she’d avoided for that reason. “We found comfort in each other. Why is that wrong?”

“Because it’s a sacred act.”

He curved his hand around her jaw and forced her to meet his gaze. “And you don’t think I worship you?”

No, she knew he did, and this time her breath caught with the memory of his reverence as he kissed every inch of her body. They’d grown more bold tonight, doing things…Her face heated at the memory, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

“You make me feel like a woman more than I’ve felt since I lost Daniel,” she admitted.

“So why is it wrong?” He dragged out the words.

“There could be a baby.”

Both of them stilled. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before, and the horror in his eyes let her know he hadn’t considered it either. Or if he had, he hadn’t made the connection between wanting her and having to watch another woman labor and perhaps die.

“I’m going back.” She drew away from his touch and reached for her clothes. “We need to get an early start in the morning. It will be nice to not have to cook on that awful stove anymore.”

“Kit.”

She looked over her shoulder and saw the regret etched in the lines of his face.

“I don’t want this to be over.”

She didn’t know what he wanted her to say, didn’t know what could be different. She stood and leaned over to kiss him, her hand on his shoulder, wanting to let her touch linger.

“I thank you for it,” she murmured. Then, winding her hair back into a bun, she slipped out of the room, her heart breaking.

***

The next morning he hardly looked at her as they packed the wagon. The wind had come up, bringing another cold front, but the weather was dry. They’d discussed postponing the trip until it warmed, but Kit had decided to press on. Now that her decision was made, she didn’t want to think about backing out.

Even if backing out would have meant another night or two in Trace’s arms.

But no, she saw Mary thinner, and Agnes. If they waited much longer, the women wouldn’t be strong enough for the journey, and Atrius wasn’t bred to pull the wagon plus passengers for a long period of time.

Trace was matter-of-fact this morning and didn’t gift her with his dimpled smile or even a warm look. No, he’d distanced himself from her after their conversation last night. She wouldn’t allow his decision to hurt. She needed to use it to make the break easier.

“Tell Mary to get her cow,” he said once the wagon was loaded to his satisfaction and Atrius was in the traces. “Are you all dressed warm enough?”

“Wearing everything we own.” She held her arms out so he could see the added weight, the stiffness of her movements. The movement almost teased a smile from him, and disappointment struck when she failed to draw it out.

“Make sure everything’s secure, in case we need to come back.”

The possibility of returning was something they hadn’t discussed. She supposed if they were attacked, or they just couldn’t make it, they would have to. But she hoped they wouldn’t have to make that choice. Deciding to move on to the Austin colony instead of going back to Louisiana had been difficult enough, but they reasoned the colony was closer and would have food. Once they had supplies, they could return to civilization.

At least, Kit and Agnes and Mary would. She didn’t know about Trace, if he still craved the adventure of living on the frontier after a few weeks of it.

“There’s one more thing I need to do,” she murmured. She excused herself as Trace loaded the last of the water, and as Agnes and Mary secured the one bag of belongings that Trace had allowed them to bring.

She crossed the yard to Daniel’s small grave, her heart heavier with each step. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t leave her baby here with no one to watch over him, with no one to remember him. The thought of him in the earth, with not even a box to hold him, only her wedding quilt wrapped around him, tore at her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She doubled over, blinded by her tears.

Heavy footsteps behind her signaled Trace’s approach.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said without turning to face him. “I don’t think I can. I don’t even have any flowers to leave.” Only the crude wooden cross that would disintegrate over time, with his name cut into it with a knife. She didn’t remember making it, only remembered the knife slipping time and again, slicing her hands, reminding her she was alive. She still had the scars.

“I made this,” he said, still behind her, his own voice gruff. He reached around her and presented her with an iron cross made from the hearth grate. Daniel’s name was etched on it, probably by Trace’s own knife, and the year 1825. “It’s no thing of beauty, but I thought it would give you peace, knowing it might last for some time.”

Her vision blurred and her heart swelled as she took the cross in her own shaking hands. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you. Thank you, Trace.” She smiled in his direction, not able to see his face through her tears.

“Do you want me to place it?” he asked, resting his hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head. “I’ll do it.” She dropped to her knees and scraped into the hard dirt with the end of the cross, making a hole deep enough so the cross would stand upright, watching over her son. She packed the dirt around the base and lowered her head a moment, prayers flying through her mind, prayers to watch over her baby, to keep them safe on the road, prayers of thanksgiving for sending Trace to her.

He gave her that time and was standing over her when she finished. He grasped her arm as she climbed to her feet. Turning into his chest, she gave into her tears one more time. He folded his arms around her and held her until she didn’t have any tears left. She eased back, touched his face and kissed him softly, not caring what Agnes or Mary thought, just needing him to know she was grateful.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m ready to go now.”

Now there was no more reason to stay. Kit opened the doors of the fort so Atrius could lead them out.

***

The wind was biting. The women walked most of the morning with their heads down, hands tucked in their woolen wraps to keep them warm. Trace’s hat blocked the wind. He considered giving it to one of the women but knew they’d each refuse. Perhaps later, when they didn’t feel so brave.

He needed to guide Atrius, who was not taking well to the sound of the wagon behind him and spooked at every blowing strand of grass. Trace’s unease grew. He couldn’t use the horse to alert him to danger. He hadn’t considered that. So he had to be vigilant. Every muscle in his body was tight and aching.

The cow meandered despite Mary’s best efforts. Trace’s gloves protected her hands from the rough rope, but her arms and shoulders would be sore tonight with all the tugging she was doing. Their progress was miniscule. It seemed forever until the fort was no longer in sight. He knew because Kit kept glancing back. He could almost feel her longing to return.

She didn’t walk with him, instead walking with Agnes and urging the older woman along. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he imagined they couldn’t much hear each other over the sound of the miserable wind.

He had hoped to make more progress the first morning, but Agnes needed a rest before the fort was out of sight. Her added weight in the cart slowed Atrius. Trace didn’t allow her to ride long. She likely resented that, but he couldn’t tire his horse more than necessary. They had a long way to go.

They stopped when the women got hungry. Trace gauged it was early afternoon by the slant of the sun that occasionally peeked through the clouds. Atrius needed the rest, as did Kit, who had taken over leading the cow. After Trace unhooked his horse, he approached her.

“We can leave the cow.”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “Not yet. She’s not that much trouble.”

They’d discussed tying the cow to the wagon, but Trace didn’t want to put the extra strain on the horse. “Your arms are going to hurt.”

“I’ll be fine.”

But she rubbed her shoulders when she thought he wasn’t looking.

They sat in the wagon to eat, using the high boards of it as a wind break, all of them happy to be off their feet. Trace imagined they hadn’t walked much in the fort, and perhaps he might have prepared them better for the journey. Hindsight did no good, however. After almost an hour of rest and a lunch of bread and honey, he hooked Atrius up again.

The pace in the afternoon was slower. He kept an eye on Mary, who seemed to be hobbling. The shoes she and Agnes wore were not practical boots like Kit’s. He wondered why Kit had them and the other women didn’t. He should have thought of that, as well.

His own exhaustion pulled at him. The strain of being alert for Indians, of worrying about the women, and of keeping an eye on his horse’s health added to the fact that he hadn’t been able to sleep last night after Kit left his bed. A combination of guilt and longing had kept him awake. But he dared not ride now. He’d keep going as long as there was light.

He missed his conversations with Kit. He hadn’t realized how much they talked until he wasn’t able to speak to her alone. He liked hearing her voice, even as it floated to him from her conversation with Mary. She glanced over and smiled and his heart turned over.

Hell and damn, he was gone. He hadn’t thought he could love again, and here he was, with Angelina in the ground only four months. What kind of husband did that make him? Was he unfaithful? He couldn’t have found a woman more unlike Angelina if he’d tried. Kit was practical and straightforward, hard-working and stubborn. Angelina had been charming and light and, well, stubborn. He’d had passion with his wife, but the passion he experienced with Kit was different. Angelina’s had been an extension of her personality. Kit’s seemed to have to break through all her other barriers. She broke through them for him, giving him that gift, again and again.

Her words about the possibility of a baby scared him to the bone, though. He couldn’t have another child, couldn’t risk losing someone else he loved, someone he’d grow to love. The entire length of the pregnancy, he’d worry, knowing what the outcome could be.

So if she was carrying his child, how would he handle it? Run, as he had when Angelina and his son died? His father believed that was all he could do. Maybe it was. But he wasn’t running yet.

Supper was a quiet affair, exhaustion dragging at all of them. They hadn’t reached the river, but Trace decided to make camp here anyway. Agnes had already pulled out her bedroll as Kit and Mary warmed a pot of beans over the fire he’d made. Trace hobbled the horse and cow, though he imagined both would be too tired to go far, and dropped to the ground by the fire, stretching his hands out.

The wind had died once the sun went down, thank goodness, but the temperatures fell as the sun sank. They’d already decided Mary and Agnes could sleep in the wagon. After dinner, they’d place the pot of beans in there to act as a hot iron, keeping them warm. Kit and Trace would sleep by the fire. Trace wanted to remind the women that body heat was best, just so he could hold Kit in his arms tonight and feel her breathing, but he was fairly certain Agnes would make him suffer for it. She wouldn’t kill him outright, because she knew they needed him, but she’d make him suffer, he was certain.

Exhaustion made him delirious. He grinned up at Kit as she worked.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You need your rest. You didn’t ride at all.”

She’d only ridden because he insisted, twice, for no more than half an hour each time. And here she was making dinner.

Again he noticed Mary hobbling. “Mary, what’s wrong with your feet?”

She sniffled, then her face crumpled into weary tears. “They just hurt so much. My shoes are rubbing them.”

“Aren’t you wearing your woolen stockings?” Kit asked, her voice a bit sharp. Her own tiredness made her impatient.

“I was, but they caused the shoes to be too tight, so I took them off.”

“Where are they?” Trace asked.

Mary went to the wagon to fetch them.

“Let me see your feet,” he said when she returned.

She exchanged a startled glance with Kit, then sat obediently on a rock beside him and unlaced her shoes.

Even in the shadows cast by the fire, he could see the raw skin on the top of her foot when she unlaced them. Once she slipped them off, he saw the back of her ankle was in the same condition, as well as the tops of her toes. She gasped when she saw the damage, and burst into tears. Across the fire, Trace met Kit’s concerned gaze, then turned back to Mary. She would have to ride tomorrow, slowing them further. She couldn’t walk far with those injuries, and the irritation would only grow worse.

“Put your woolen stockings on and don’t put your shoes on,” he said. “Sit here. I’ll help Kit with dinner.”

Kit protested, but Mary didn’t.

“How are your feet?” he asked Kit as he performed the job she gave him, stirring the beans from a seat on a rock.

“I’m fine.”

He studied her face for a minute, but he saw no guile there. “And your mother-in-law?” He nodded toward the dozing woman resting against the side of the wagon.

“We can ask her in the morning.”

“Mary can’t walk tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Let’s leave the cow, Kit.”

“She started following fine after lunch.”

“Because she’d stopped to eat every five minutes in the morning.”

“Trace.” She sat on the rock beside him. “I thank you for doing this. You could have been in the Austin colony a week ago and sent back help, instead of carrying us out on your own.”

He scowled. “If the men in Austin’s colony are no better than the men who left you behind, I wouldn’t have trusted one of them to come for you.”

“Don’t be too harsh on them. I was determined not to leave.”

“I would have knocked you unconscious and carried you out.”

That surprised a laugh from her. “You would not.”

“I would. I’d have done it this morning if you hadn’t wanted to leave.”

She sobered, her gaze on the fire. “What you did for Daniel, that means the world to me.”

He reached up and stroked her hair. “I didn’t do it for Daniel.”

She stood then, and moved away. “Dinner is ready. I’ll get Agnes.”

***

Kit woke in the middle of the night on the cold, hard ground, her teeth chattering. The fire had gone down. She sat up to add more wood to it, only to see Trace doing just that. He glanced across the fire at her, shadows and exhaustion etching dark hollows under his eyes. At least she’d been able to feed him well. They’d all had their fill of hot beans, and there was enough left for breakfast in the morning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been full.

But now she was cold. “I forgot the first night after a cold front is the worst,” she said, trying to find a warm spot in her bedroll, made from the quilts they’d had on hand at the fort. Her body hadn’t held enough warmth to create one.

“Bring your bedroll over here next to mine.”

She glanced instinctively toward the wagon where Agnes and Mary slept. “I can’t.”

“No doubt they’re sharing body heat. Why shouldn’t we? Besides, they’re asleep, and you know we’ll be awake before they are. I’m not going to do anything but hold you, I promise.”

“That was a lot more argument than I expected,” she said, kicking free of her bedroll to stand and move it.

“I’ve been practicing all night.” He shifted so she’d have enough space between him and the fire but would remain a safe distance from any floating embers.

“I can’t push you away from the fire,” she protested, surveying the arrangement.

“I’ll be fine. Come here.” He helped her spread the bedroll, then pulled her down with him.

She cocooned herself and nestled against him. His arm curving over her, and she made a sound of contentment. “You’re right. This feels nice.”

“Mm. Have you noticed that we only get to sleep like this when we have all our clothes on?”

“I have noticed. And I’m not taking anything off. Too cold.”

“Too tired,” he returned. “Just sleep with me, Kit. I just need you to sleep with me.”

She yawned, allowing herself to close her eyes. But she vowed she’d wake up before everyone else in the morning.

Chapter Eight

They managed to wake before Agnes and Mary, and packed their bedrolls before Kit woke the other women while retrieving the pot of beans. The warm breakfast would help them on their way this morning. That, and the milk they got from Bessy, sweet and creamy this morning despite the cow’s distress. She’d stopped to graze yesterday, as Trace had pointed out, but they reaped the rewards now.

Agnes pouted a bit when she learned Mary would ride, but when Kit inspected her feet, she found the other woman had worn her woolen stockings as she’d been told, and her feet were fine. She could walk instead of adding the extra strain to Atrius.

The day wasn’t as cold, since the wind had died and the sun tried to peek through the clouds, but each breath still stung Kit’s lungs. She didn’t have to walk with her head bowed and was able to watch Trace, strong and sure, leading Atrius, who seemed resigned to his fate today.

She’d loved sleeping with Trace’s arms around her last night, but that couldn’t happen again. Even if Agnes never found out, Kit couldn’t open herself to the pain of loving and losing someone else. Why take the chance? Trace wasn’t ready to love again after losing his wife and child. They hadn’t discussed what would happen once they reached the Austin colony. Would he stay or move on? Or perhaps he would go back home, once he realized his choice to leave had been made in grief.

No, best to start withdrawing now, so it would be easier to say goodbye when they reached civilization.

***

Kit flexed her fingers inside Trace’s leather gloves. Her hands ached after leading Betsy, but she wouldn’t tell him. She didn’t want to give him a reason to leave the cow behind. Yet his mouth tightened when he glanced at her subtle hand movements. She wasn’t fooling him.

The question she’d been aching to ask bubbled up with her need to change the subject. “What are you going to do, once we get there?” Oh, dear, that didn’t come out as casually as she hoped.

“To San Felipe?”

“You were heading there before you came upon us.”

“You want to know if I have a plan.”

Humor laced his voice. He was poking fun. “There’s nothing wrong with having a plan,” she said primly.

“Do you have one, once you get there?”

She clenched her hands again. “No.” Not knowing what she’d find in the colonies prevented her from creating a solid plan. Right now she wanted to be warm and have a full belly. Having supplies would be such a relief. But once they arrived, they’d still have to make camp. She doubted San Felipe had a boarding house.

She loathed being limited by what she didn’t know.

“Do you have money?” he asked quietly, as if he was wary about prying.

Enough to get back to New Orleans if they could find someone to take them. “We’re fine.”

He nodded. She realized he hadn’t told her what his plans were. She opened her mouth to remind him, but a movement in the grass alerted her. Tension snapped her body upright. “Trace.”

Her tone brought him to attention. He turned where she pointed, his shoulders tight as his hand rested on the butt of the pistol he’d begun wearing at his hip.

“Get on the other side of the wagon,” he said in a low voice as three dark heads appeared above the grass.

She did as he asked, not wanting to give him something else to worry about with enemies approaching. She paused long enough to draw the rifle from the wagon, then joined Agnes and Mary who stood behind it.

“Put it back,” Trace said, not looking back at her. “They aren’t armed.”

She tightened her fingers on the barrel, instinct rebelling. Glimpsing more movement on their other flank, she whipped around and braced the rifle in front of her with both hands.

“Trace,” she said again, her voice tighter.

He drew the horse to a halt. “Karankawa?”

Beside Kit, Agnes whimpered. Kit refused to give into fear, and straightened to squint at the six Indians approaching. Identifying tattoos ran up the arms of two of the men. Kit’s skin quivered as panic reached up to choke her. Tales the soldiers had told of these people, tales of brutality and cannibalism, rushed back to her. This was why she hadn’t ventured from the fort.

“Yes.” The word trembled past her lips. Were they going to die out here? They should have stayed in the fort. What kind of horrible ending had she brought her family to?

The rifle that weighed down her arms would do her no good against so many.

“…hunting party,” she heard Trace say over the pounding of the blood in her ears.

“What?”

“Not a war party. They have children with them. Kit.” His voice was calm, reasonable. “They’re hungry.”

He went into action, moving quickly to the back of the wagon, where Betsy was tied. Kit pivoted to watch him, keeping herself between the natives and her family, her hands sweaty on the metal of the barrel.

Trace kept his back to the wagon, then to the cow, sweeping his hand across the cow’s back. The Indians approached, but not with menace. Caution. They were afraid too.

“Bring me a cup,” he said to Kit.

She edged toward the wagon, breaking free of Mary’s desperate grasp on her sleeve. Kit reached into the back of the wagon, hands shaking, to paw through their belongings to find a cup. What was Trace thinking? She pulled out a chipped ceramic mug, aware the natives had moved closer. Their attention was on Trace. Were they sizing up his threat or were they simply curious?

Staying close to the wagon, and Betsy’s head, she extended the cup to Trace. His gaze touched hers for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, turned his back on the natives and crouched at Betsy’s flank to urge milk from her udder and into the cup.

The natives moved closer. Kit clasped Betsy’s rope harness. Trace filled the cup, took a sip of the warm milk and offered it to one of the children. Boy or girl, Kit didn’t know—all the natives wore their hair long and dressed in shapeless deerskins. The child considered the cup but didn’t take it. Trace licked his lips in an exaggerated motion and offered the cup again.

One of the men came forward, snatched the cup from Trace’s hand and drained it in a defiant gesture. Surprise smoothed the big man’s tattooed forehead and relaxed his cheeks. He held the mug out to Trace. Trace nodded and filled the cup again. This time the man took the cup from Trace and held it to the child. The child looked at the man, frowning, then sipped.

The laugh that rang out over the plains was unexpected, and echoed by the men and women. Some of the tension in Kit’s chest eased. The man who’d taken the cup thrust it back to Trace, who remained crouched by Betsy’s side.

“Betsy, don’t fail me now,” he muttered, and filled the mug again.

Kit breathed a sigh of relief when the stream hit the bottom of the cup. Trace offered it to the other child, who drank and smiled.

“They’re hungry,” Trace murmured when the milk finally gave out and he rose, hands spread before him in a shrug of apology.

Tension returned full force when the native man thrust the cup back at Trace. Trace drew in a breath and bent to squeeze an udder, show the natives that no milk remained. The man frowned, but nodded an understanding.

“Untie the cow, Kit.” Trace’s voice was calm and low.

A moment passed before she realized he spoke to her. “What?”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Untie her from the wagon.”

Mary realized what he was doing before Kit did, and she surged forward, stopping short when one of the native men raised his head to look at her.

“You can’t!” she cried to Trace. “You can’t give her away! She’s not yours, she’s mine.”

“I’m going to give her to them.” He kept his voice even. “We need to do this. Do you understand?”

But he didn’t address Mary. He looked at Kit. The fear that trembled through her now was not only because of the Indians who surrounded them, but for surrendering their last source of food.

“You’re certain?”

“I don’t see another way. We’ll reach the colony in a matter of days, and our party is smaller, easier to feed.”

“And they’ll go,” Kit added.

He averted his gaze for a moment. “I believe they’ll go.”

“But they’ll kill her!” Mary cried, reaching out to stroke her cow’s face.

“They might kill her,” Trace agreed. “We also might have had to, before long.”

“And now we won’t have to make that choice,” Kit said, and loosened the rope from the wagon.

“Kit, no!” Mary threw herself at Kit.

Trace gripped the girl by the shoulders and drew her back. Tears blurred Kit’s vision at one more loss the girl had to endure, but they had no choice. The idea made the bottom of her stomach drop. Not having a choice scared her. She placed the rope in Trace’s outstretched hand and held her arms out to Mary. The girl glared at her as if she’d betrayed them all, then ran back to her mother.

Kit wrapped her arms around herself as Trace led the cow to the native man and handed over the rope. The Indian looked at the rope, the cow, then Trace. He nodded and turned to lead his band away.

Kit didn’t allow the tears to fall until the Indians were out of sight. Trace stepped up behind her and placed his hand between her shoulder blades.

“We’ll be all right,” he murmured, stroking her braid against her back. “We’ll be all right.”

***

Keeping the gun in the wagon was too far away for Kit after that encounter, so she carried it in front of her as she walked. The weight was reassuring, though a look from Trace told her he thought it unnecessary. She didn’t care. It made her feel safe.

She ignored Mary’s sniffles from the wagon. Yes, Mary had gotten attached to the cow before her illness, when her job had been to milk the animal, but surely the girl could see Trace had had no choice. Kit’s patience was too frazzled to point that out to her sister-in-law without snapping.

Agnes’s skirts swished in the grass as she approached, and Kit’s shoulders tensed.

“You’re giving Mr. Watson too much control,” Agnes chided, keeping her voice low.

“He’s keeping us safe. Do you doubt his decision to buy our passage with the cow?”

Agnes stiffened. “It was our property. He didn’t even ask us. And my china, Kit. Those savages are going to destroy property that has been in my family for generations.”

“It was too heavy. We couldn’t bring it for the same reason he doesn’t want us to ride. His horse isn’t bred for hauling, and we need to keep the animal healthy.” Why was she having to explain this? Couldn’t Agnes understand what would happen if Atrius went lame? They’d be stranded out here.

“And he’s too familiar with you. He is not your husband, but he touches you like he is.”

Kit’s face heated, but she kept her eyes forward. This was Agnes’s real problem, the reason she would argue with Trace’s decisions when she’d never raise an objection to another man. She was worried about Trace’s relationship with Kit. Kit didn’t know how to explain to John’s mother that she missed the comfort of a man’s arms, that Trace was gentle and caring. She considered telling Agnes about Trace’s own grief, but that was not her place.

Agnes was right, though Kit didn’t care to admit it. Kit had decided herself this relationship couldn’t continue on their journey, but Trace made it so easy to turn to him.

She needed to break that dependence, especially since she didn’t know what would happen when they arrived at the colony.

All she said to her mother-in-law was, “You’re right.”

That satisfied the woman, who patted her arm and fell back to walk beside the wagon that carried her daughter.

***

The line of trees alerted them to the presence of a river before they reached it. Kit tightened her wrap about her against the breeze and walked to where Trace surveyed the river.

“Is this the Brazos?” he asked without glancing over his shoulder.

Since she’d memorized his map, she didn’t even have to check.

“The Trinity, I think.” She stepped up beside him. “You’re not thinking of crossing it. It looks deep.”

“We have to.”

She shivered and moved back from the bank. “I don’t even want to think about getting my feet wet.”

He turned and walked back to the wagon. “You won’t. The three of you will ride in the wagon.”

She hurried after him, alarmed by the determined set of his shoulders, forgetting her vow to keep her distance. “And you?”

He pressed his lips together. “I’ll have to lead Atrius. He won’t take the wagon into the water otherwise. Good thing we got rid of the cow.”

“You don’t have any other clothes, and it’s freezing out here.” She pulled her wrap tighter and glared up at him. “We don’t know how deep it is. We should wait, go upriver a bit, don’t you think?”

His jaw tensed as he considered. “If the river hooks back, it’s just going to take us longer to reach the colony, and we don’t have the supplies to spare.”

“Until closer to sundown, then. Maybe we can find a shallower part of the river, or narrower.” She rubbed her arms just thinking about how cold Trace would be once he stepped into the water.

He rubbed the edge of his hand over his chin. “All right, until before sundown. I don’t want to wait till after sundown—too much of a chance for a chill, and I don’t suppose you’ll warm me up again.” He said the last with a crooked grin.

An image of stripping his wet clothes from him and pressing her body against his filled her mind so vividly, she blushed and turned away.

“Kit,” he said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” He hadn’t. Only her fears and realizations, as well as Agnes’s concern, were causing her to pull away from him and keep their interactions impersonal. “Do you want to eat before we start following the river?”

“Beans again?” He pressed his lips together in distaste. “I can wait.”

“Maybe we’ll find some game coming to get water.”

“I’m a lousy shot,” he reminded her.

She smiled over her shoulder as she made her way back to the wagon. “I’m not.”

***

The rifle had grown heavy in her hands, so Kit rested it in the back of the wagon and walked alongside so it was within reach. She scanned the river, which glinted in the occasional sunlight, watching for signs of life beyond the blackbirds that fluttered around the trees. She might be able to get a few of them before the shots scared off the rest, but they would be more trouble than they were worth, scrawny as they were. A duck would be nice, or even better, a deer.

The tall sycamore and cottonwood trees lining the river provided a pleasant change of scenery, and the soothing sound of flowing water accompanied the creak of the wagon. The air was cooler near the water, but falling asleep with that sound close by would be nice.

Not that falling asleep listening to Trace’s even breathing wasn’t. He didn’t snore, but his breathing had a pleasing rasp to it. Just remembering the sound made her think of his arms around her, and she warmed at the memory.

And promptly pushed the thought from her head. Why couldn’t things be simpler?

Because if they were, she wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t be here, she’d never have known him. The idea made her sad.

Trace pulled up the horse and turned. “What do you think?”

She jolted out of her reverie. Did he know where her mind had wandered?

He nodded to an area of the river that was narrower than they’d seen so far, and at least until the middle, Kit could see the rocky bottom.

Kit walked up beside him. “We don’t know how deep it is.”

“One way to find out.” He dropped to the ground and pulled off his boots.

“Trace!”

He squinted up. “You said yourself I don’t have a change of clothes. Only way to keep these dry is to put them in the wagon with you ladies.”

Just watching him undress sent a chill through her. “Can you swim?”

He snorted. “I can, but let’s hope I don’t have to.” He stood and shucked off his trousers, leaving his legs bare in his linen underdrawers.

Behind Kit, Agnes gasped and Mary giggled. Kit tried not to stare as he shucked his jacket and shirt, laying them both over the edge of the wagon. He shivered and slapped at his bare arms, then headed for the river.

Kit huddled in her own wrap, feeling a coward as he stuck his foot in the water and yelped. He grinned over his shoulder before wading to the middle of the river, knee deep, stopping, testing the depth with his foot, and plunging in to his hips.

Dear God, he was going to freeze. Kit moved to the edge of the water, as if she could will him across more quickly. Once he discovered the river was no deeper, he turned and swam back, his entire body quivering in an attempt to warm him. Kit whipped off her wrap to dry him, but he held out a hand to hold her back.

“Let’s wait until we’re on the other side. I want you all in the wagon, as close to the front as possible. It’ll float a bit when we get to the center, but we need to do this now.”

Kit nodded and turned to help Agnes into the wagon with Mary. “I’m going to help you,” she told Trace.

“No sense in both of us soaked to the skin,” he said through chattering teeth. “You’ll need to get a fire going when we’re on the other side. Besides, Atrius will follow me, won’t you, boy?” He patted his horse’s withers. Tossing his boots into the wagon, he gave Kit a look. “All aboard. No arguments.”

Guilty, hating that he felt the need to do this because he was the man, but not wanting him to stand in the cold air in his bare skin longer than necessary, Kit climbed into the wagon with the other women. She remained standing, gripping the rough wooden edge.

The wagon lurched forward, then jolted to a stop, slamming the women forward against the sides as Atrius hesitated at the edge of the river. Trace clucked his tongue as he stood shivering, knee deep in the water. He tugged on the lead rope. Atrius put one hoof in the water, then another. With Trace’s urging, the horse continued at a slow, steady pace, bringing the wagon along. The wheels splashed into the river, and the bed swayed from side to side as the current rolled against it.

Kit hadn’t thought—the wagon wasn’t sealed against the water.

“Get up,” she ordered Mary and Agnes, who cowered in the front corner of the wagon. “Hold the bedding.” The food was safe in the iron pot they used to cook in, but the wet bedding might take a long time to dry, and they needed to stay warm. She bent to gather what she could hold. Agnes did the same as water seeped through the slats.

Now that their clothing and bedding were safe, Kit turned her attention back to Trace. His shoulder muscles bunched as he wrapped his hand around the lead rope close to Atrius’s muzzle. Trace’s jaw clenched against the icy water flowing around his hips. Kit felt the urge to call out encouragement to him, but didn’t want to distract him.

The wheels skidded and lost contact with the riverbed. The wagon floated a few feet downstream, the harness tight against Atrius’s body. The horse stumbled. Trace lost his grip on Atrius’s bridle and dropped beneath the water. Kit had drawn in a breath to scream his name when he emerged, whipping his hair out of his eyes.

The wagon still floated, straining at the horse’s hindquarters. Atrius tossed his head and whinnied in panic.

“Stand over the wheels,” Kit ordered Agnes and Mary.

Weight over the wheels would stabilize them, and Atrius could start forward again. Trace had to get out of the water before he caught his death.

Moving carefully, the women shifted. After a moment, the wheels touched the riverbed. Kit looked over to see Trace had gained his feet and had a grasp on Atrius’s bridle again. Trace’s face tightened grimly and the muscles in his arms flexed as he wrestled Atrius, who tossed his head and rolled his eyes.

When they reached the riverbank, Atrius tore free of Trace and bounded onto the land, bringing the wagon rattling behind. Trace staggered out of the way and collapsed on the ground.

Kit scrambled out of the wagon, her clean petticoat bundled in her hands. “Build a fire,” she snapped at Agnes as she dropped to the ground beside Trace.

Gooseflesh roughened his body and his teeth chattered as she wiped the cold water from his skin with the soft cotton. She murmured his name as she dried him the best she could, chafing his naked skin with her hands. Water from his hair rolled down the indentation of his spine. Kit mopped it before it reached his wet drawers, which clung to his skin.

“You need to get out of those,” she murmured. He’d been sick so recently. What would happen to them if he sickened again?

She leaned close, slipping her woolen shawl about him, sliding her palm over his wide shoulders to warm him with the heat of her body. She jolted when a pile of fabric dropped in the dirt beside her.

Trace’s clothes. She looked up to see Agnes’s tight mouth before the older woman pivoted and strode off. Kit refused to feel guilty. What choice did she have? Trace risked his life for them—couldn’t Agnes see that?

“I can do it.” Trace reached for his shirt and struggled into it. His hands shook too much to work the buttons. She batted his hands away and took over, her knees nudging his thigh. He was so numb from being in the river, he barely felt the pressure. The chill was to the bone.

He’d never been so cold. The warmth from Kit’s body was so tempting. The touch of her hands made him itch to grab her, pull her over him and nuzzle into her warmth. “Kit.”

She looked up, brown eyes dark with concern.

“I need to change my drawers,” he chattered.

“I know.”

He glanced past her to her family. “Can’t do it in front of you.”

She gave him that smile he loved. “I’ll bring over the bedrolls.”

That sounded like heaven, nestling into the soft warmth. If Kit would curl up beside him, all the better, but he knew she wouldn’t, not with Agnes and Mary near. He shook his head. “I need to see to Atrius.”

She pressed her hand on his shoulder to hold him down. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Need to get the blood flowing again,” he countered, rolling onto one hip to rise. Right now he felt like he’d never be warm again. His feet were numb, his soft parts all drawn in, his fingers stiff.

Her jaw set stubbornly as she sat back on her heels. “Just make sure you get out of those wet drawers. I’ll get them by the fire first thing.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rose and pivoted in one fluid move, leaving him wondering what he’d done to make her angry.

***

Fire never felt so good. Trace wanted to crawl right in the middle of it. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel as if his bones were ready to snap. He’d tended Atrius, warming up some oats for the gelding. He fed the animal straight from the pan, to Agnes’s chagrin. Kit had insisted on taking the time to heat the remaining beans and coffee so Trace would have something warm in his belly. He had to admit it was working. Still, he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, curled up around the fire, wrapped in one of Kit’s soft blankets.

It was too early to stop, though, and walking would get the blood moving again.

When they started back on the trail, Kit hefted her rifle out of the wagon again. Trace looked at her askance.

She gestured toward the trees lining the river. “Water. We might see animals.”

“Do you want me to?” He motioned to the gun.

“No, I really don’t.”

He grinned despite the insult. “I’ll keep a lookout then.”

Suppertime was almost upon them when the ducks came flying in low, to land on the water. Her movements calm and sure, Kit lifted the rifle to her shoulder and fired. Amid the cacophony of panicked honks, a duck dropped to the bank. Before it hit, she’d lifted the other rifle out of the wagon and fired again.

Her cheeks flushed with accomplishment, she turned to face him. Pride rolled through Trace as he shucked his boots and tossed them in the back of the wagon, ready to wade in and retrieve the second duck from the river.

“This is as good a place to make camp as any. Start a fire.”

They feasted on the greasy dark meat of the duck. This meal was more jovial than last night’s, their weariness waning in the delight of good food.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Trace asked, leaning back against a log and cleaning a drumstick with his teeth.

“My son was an excellent marksman.” Agnes set her plate aside and drew her feet deeper beneath her skirt, wrapping her arms around her knees. “He insisted we know how to shoot. Kit took to it better than the rest of us.”

Kit smiled. “I liked it more than they did.”

“You do have a mean streak.” He grinned across the fire at her and watched her color deepen, her eyes shine.

“Maybe I can teach you,” she offered, her tone light.

She was in a good mood, pleased with her ability to provide them with a good dinner. He liked seeing it and wished he could make her this happy every day. The thought brought him up short. He wasn’t making plans, wasn’t thinking ahead. She deserved someone who could. But he went along with her playfulness, for now. “Oh, better men than you have tried and failed. I was never much good.” At anything, if one believed his father.

“You’ll be safe as long as I’m around.” She winked as she licked her fingers clean.

Again Trace heated oats for Atrius and Kit resisted the urge to check the stores. Keeping the horse healthy was important. Trace knew what he was doing.

“How far up the river is the colony?” Trace settled back by the fire after he’d tended to Atrius, stretching his feet toward it.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been,” Kit replied. “We got as far as the fort. I have no idea what’s even in the colony.”

“It will be nice to be around people again,” Mary said with a wistful sigh. “And a store where I can buy fabric for a new dress, and hard candy, and maybe a new hat.”

“A church,” Agnes added. “I miss the services.”

“People are likely, and a church,” Trace said. “Perhaps a dry goods store. The rest, I’m not sure. It won’t be like New Orleans.”

“I miss New Orleans. I wish we’d never left.” Mary plucked at her skirt.

“Families stay together,” Agnes chided. “If we hadn’t come, Kit would have been on her own.”

“And I never could have managed Daniel without your help,” Kit added.

She hadn’t realized what she said until Agnes and Mary jolted at the mention of Daniel. She hadn’t lied to Trace. She didn’t talk about her child. It hurt too much. But if she didn’t start talking about him, others would forget him. She couldn’t allow that to happen even if it ripped her heart out.

But tonight wasn’t the night to start, not when they were all looking at her with sympathy in their eyes. She rolled to her feet and walked toward the river, needing the soothing sound of the flowing water to ease her heart. A flat boulder overlooked the water and she sat on it. Ignoring the chill seeping through her skirts, she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them for warmth, then lowered her head to her knees.

A weight dropped over her shoulders. Her wrap. She looked at Trace, hands in his pockets. She rested her cheek on her knee and gave him a small smile.

“Thank you.”

“Warm enough?”

She turned her attention to the river. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.”

“Do you want me to go?” His voice was a quiet rumble that reached into her soul and soothed it somehow.

“You don’t have to. But I don’t want to talk about him.”

“All right.” He crouched and rocked back on his heels, following her gaze over the water. Tension vibrated the air around him. “I want you to sleep in the wagon tonight.”

Surprised, she turned. “Why?”

“I want to keep a lookout tonight. These trees make me itchy.” He scanned the area, then back at her. “Too many places for someone to hide.”

“Trace.” She slid her feet off the rock and swung around to face him. “You can’t walk the entire way and stay up all night. Especially not after what you did back when we crossed the river. You need sleep.”

“We can’t risk someone coming up on us in the middle of the night.”

“Then we’ll take turns. You sleep, then I sleep.”

His mouth tightened. “I won’t leave you on your own.”

Like John. She knew he was thinking those words. Would he ever say them, ever accuse her husband? “I was on my own before.”

“I know, but—”

“You have to sleep, Trace.” She climbed off the boulder and started toward camp. Being alone while everyone slept might be nice. Of course, she’d be alone with her thoughts. That might not be so nice.

He touched her shoulder, stopping her. “Are you all right?”

She turned. When she looked into his eyes, she realized he wasn’t talking about her staying up alone. “I won’t be the same person again. Always a part of me will be missing.”

“I know.” He slipped a lock of her hair behind her ear. The tenderness of his gesture was almost her undoing. “You know I understand.”

But that didn’t make it easier for her to talk. She ducked away from his touch and walked back to camp.

***

A shot from a rifle woke Trace from a deep sleep. He bolted upright, searching for Kit as he tore his way out of the bedroll, her name ripping from his throat. He scrambled to his feet, gun in hand, in time to see a shadow of a figure with a rifle. He lifted his gun before he recognized the silhouette of Kit’s skirt. Lowering his rifle, he ran toward her.

“What is it?” he whispered, aware of Agnes and Mary coming out of their cocoon in the wagon as he passed it.

“I think I got a deer.” She grinned in the moonlight. “Get a log from the fire so we can find it.”

“You got a deer,” he repeated, dumbfounded.

“I think so.”

He clapped a hand over his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry. But Trace, it’s meat.”

“Then let’s find it.” He went back to the fire to get a piece of wood, fanned the glow to a flame and followed her.

She’d shot a young buck, and hit it high enough on its shoulder that it was still alive when they found it. Trace jabbed the log into the earth, then unsheathed his knife and finished the job.

“This is going to be messy.” He shucked his coat and shirt and stripped his long underwear to his waist. He sure as hell didn’t want to ride into the Austin colony drenched in blood. “Go on, now. I got this.”

“Are you crazy? I shot him. I want to help. Show me what to do.” She tossed her wrap on top of his coat and unbuttoned her bodice, peeling down each layer until she wore only her chemise.

He stared at her bare arms, her nipples peaked against the thin fabric. He dragged his attention away, back to the deer carcass. “Kit, you’re going to catch a fever.”

“I’m fine.”

He flipped the knife toward her, hilt first. “You want to do it?”

She took the knife hesitantly, hovering the tip over the animal’s belly.

“Not there.” He guided her hand down to the genitals. Her hands shuddered and hesitated as they sliced through the flesh. “Let me get through the bone, then you can get out the heart and lungs.”

She nodded and handed him the knife to cut through the breastbone. He looked into her face.

“You want me to do this?”

She shook her head, her gaze on the gaping body. “I want to do it.”

He watched as she sliced the heart and lungs free, and pulled them out, the organs spilling over her hands, the distasteful expression on her face priceless.

Then he went in deeper, pulled out the esophagus and drew the guts out all together, scooping them out on the ground, warm blood slicking his arms almost to his elbows.

“Help me turn him.”

Working together, they rolled the buck onto his belly to drain and cool. Trace pulled up a handful of grass and scrubbed the blood from his skin. Kit imitated him, then climbed to her feet as he did. He lifted the buck by his hocks. Working together, they hung him from a tree a distance from the camp.

“Is there something we can wrap the body in?” he asked after he worked to peel the hide away.

She turned toward camp. “I’ll get a sheet.”

By the time she returned, he’d finished removing the hide and the head, and he took the cloth from her to wrap the carcass. He was sweating when he was done, despite the chill in the air. He considered washing in the river, but a shiver ran through him at the thought. Still, the blood was already drying, sticky on his skin. He returned to the wagon for his jacket, then considered whether he wanted to sacrifice the shirt to bathe himself off.

“Here. I brought this.” She handed him a drying sheet. “I’ve got water warming over the fire.”

“That’s a smart girl. Let’s go.”

Agnes and Mary had apparently gone back to bed, he noted as he moved to the fireplace. How they could, with all the excitement, he had no idea, but was glad of it. His own blood pulsed through him. He needed to be alone with Kit.

Even the warm water wasn’t warm enough, so he bathed quickly, dried off and slipped back into his longjohns, then his shirt. She didn’t work as quickly. His gaze was riveted to the strokes of the cloth she eased over her white skin, removing the barbaric red of the blood. The sight shouldn’t have aroused him, but the strength of her and the determined light in her eyes as she’d learned this new skill had added to his attraction and admiration of her.

She met his gaze and smiled. He should have looked away but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and trailed the end of his drying sheet down her arms, from her shoulder to fingertips. She looked into his face while he repeated the caress, twining his fingers through hers, then bringing her palm to his mouth.

Bad idea. He glanced back to ensure Agnes and Mary were in the wagon. He couldn’t make love to her here. He needed to get her dressed and warm.

He needed for her to stop looking at him like that.

“Get some sleep.” He drew her sleeve up her arm, unable to stop touching her.

“I can’t. I’m too excited.” She rested her hands on his forearms, easing closer.

“Kit.” He slid his hand around the back of her shoulders, drawing up the fabric of her dress, covering her quickly chilling skin.

She moved nearer, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, her lips parted hopefully. Though he knew he was inviting trouble, he pulled her close and settled his mouth over hers. It was like coming home. Her hands were in his hair, her body against his, her mouth warm, her tongue seeking. She drew him down to the bedrolls, clutching his sleeves, bringing him over her. His legs tangled in the layers of her skirts as she tangled her fingers in his hair. He lifted his head, pushing her hair back from her face, looking into her shining eyes.

Sense fled at the excitement he saw there. He pulled her bedroll over them, hiding them before pushing up her skirts, his palms skimming her thighs, parting them, pressing against her until she rolled against him, eager, murmuring his name. He shushed her as he loosened his trousers, freeing his sex. He wanted better for her than intercourse on the ground, her skirts bunched up, his pants not all the way down, but she wanted this too, wanted it now, and surged up against him to take him into her.

The sensation shouldn’t have surprised him, but the tightness of her body wrung a moan of pleasure out of him. Before he knew it, he was close to climax as she moved against him, wriggled, her own breath coming fast, desperate. He matched his movement to her sighs and gripping her hips. His thrusts were shallow and he never thought he’d be able to reach climax like that, but…

“Kit. Kit, I have to—”

“Yes. Yes.”

He cupped her bottom, tilting her toward him and drove into her, holding back as long as he could before he felt the quivers of her body. He couldn’t hold back anymore. Everything in him stiffened as he pulsed into her, vaguely aware of her own breath of completion as he lowered his forehead to hers.

“Crazy,” he murmured when he found his voice. He pulled out of her.

She just smiled and straightened her skirts. “I might be able to sleep now.”

He chuckled, fastened his trousers and rolled onto his back, staring at the sky through the leaves. “I think I might have warmed up a bit.”

“Don’t go.” She reached for him as he sat up.

He hadn’t even taken his boots off. Damn it, she deserved better. “Have to keep a lookout. Couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.” He bent to kiss her before he pushed to his feet to take his post as lookout.

***

Kit woke to the aroma of cooking meat. She sat up to see Trace crouched before the fire, her cast iron skillet filled with strips of venison. He gave her a warm grin before inclining his head toward Agnes and Mary, who had already wolfed down their portions. She blinked, realizing it must be late in the day.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long,” she chided, pushing back the bedroll, wincing a little at the twinge of the muscles she’d exercised last night.

“Our hunter deserved her sleep.” He handed her a plate.

“And you?” She took it and sat up, folding her legs under her skirt.

“I thought we’d probably get a late start today. Atrius could use some rest, anyway.”

She tucked a bit of meat into her mouth. The flavor exploded on her tongue—it seemed almost foreign, she had been without it so long. She closed her eyes to savor it a moment before opening them again and meeting his amused gaze. She swallowed, embarrassed. “Did you eat?”

He shook his head, then rubbed the knuckle of his thumb between his eyebrows. “Later. I think I might get some more sleep.”

Kit wasn’t accustomed to idleness, but she and Agnes and Mary moved away from camp to allow Trace to rest peacefully. They stayed near the river until the wind nipped at them, and then they returned to camp to sit quietly by the fire. Kit got out her knitting for the first time in what felt like weeks. She had convinced Trace the wool was too precious to leave behind, and it didn’t weigh much. Now she worked diligently on a pair of socks for him, making sure the stitches were tight so the socks would be warm. She let her mind wander ahead.

She still didn’t know what would happen to Trace once they got to the Austin colony. He’d mentioned his best friend but had been adamant about not making plans beyond that. Would he find his friend and settle in? Or would he want to move on without her?

Last night, she’d risked so much to feel his body against hers, inside hers. She had never initiated lovemaking with John, yet she’d done it more than once with Trace. What did that say about her? Or was it more telling about him?

“Kit!”

Mary’s tone made it clear she’d been trying to get her attention. Kit stirred herself from her memory of last night to show Mary how to perform a stitch.

Trace rose around noon, slow-moving. Kit cooked up some more venison. Chewing felt odd, but she wasn’t complaining. She joined Agnes in giving thanks that this young, scrawny buck was sent their way.

Trace packed the carcass in the wagon—there was no other choice—so Mary decided to try walking, uncomfortable with the thought of riding with the animal. She lifted the edge of her skirt to prove she wore her woolen socks inside her boots.

Everyone was in a better mood when they made camp only hours later, some of the urgency to get to the colony gone now that they had food. Still, being in the open made Kit uneasy. She couldn’t wait to sleep indoors again, surrounded by other people. While she looked forward to that, she’d forgotten how to make casual conversation. She would have to relearn the art of small talk, a small price to pay for security.

***

Two nights later, Trace woke her with an urgent whisper, his hand squeezing her shoulder.

“Get in the wagon and stay there until I come for you. Don’t make a sound.”

She wanted to ask what was going on, but the timbre of his voice reached through her sleep-fogged mind. She recognized the immediacy and nodded, crawling to her feet and gathering her bedroll to carry with her. She climbed into the wagon, keeping low, shushing Agnes and Mary when they woke and questioned her. Her family obeyed, thank God, so Kit could focus what was happening outside the wagon, despite Mary’s nervous shivering beside her. She patted the girl reassuringly, but her mind was on Trace. She hated leaving him alone. Reaching into the corner of the wagon, she felt around until she found the barrel of her rifle. She closed her hand around it.

Trace rose from his seat by the fire as the four men rode into camp, hoping his size would intimidate them, knowing that was his only chance against the odds. He hoped holding onto his rifle didn’t seem confrontational, but it was not yet dawn. What did these men have in mind, coming up on a camp at this time of day?

“Morning,” he greeted as calmly as he could. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

“We would be obliged if we could warm up by your fire. We’ve been riding all night,” said one, a short stocky man with a full beard and dark eyes.

Trace dipped the barrel of the rifle to reduce its threat as he considered the request, measuring the other men in the group—a tall rangy man, a Mexican, and a boy. The horses weren’t good stock and looked whipped, as though they’d ridden longer than overnight with no break. “You’re welcome to.” How neighborly should he be? Should he offer them meat?

The men dismounted and arranged themselves around the fire. Trace’s pulse picked up. He wasn’t usually untrusting, but he had three women to look after. And he couldn’t suss out what these men really wanted. He was glad Kit had had the presence of mind to carry her bedroll with her. He didn’t want the men suspecting he wasn’t alone.

“Where you men heading?”

The stocky man, apparently the leader, spoke. “San Felipe.”

“Is that right? How much farther is it?”

“Another day’s ride on horseback.” The stocky man looked past him to the wagon. “Longer with supplies.”

Trace’s heart rate sped up at the contemplative look in the other man’s eyes. “No supplies, really, just a few belongings. I’m heading there to meet my friend. Maybe you know him. Almanzo Tarleton?”

The leader shook his head. “This’ll be our first time in the colony.”

If this rough crew was what they’d find when they got there, Trace had to figure a way to get Kit and her family back to New Orleans.

The leader nodded to the cast iron skillet sitting by the fire. “Do you have something to eat? We haven’t seen any game in a while.”

Instinct told him to move them along. The longer they remained, the likelier that he would let down his guard. At the same time, he knew Kit would want him to help. He nodded toward the river. “Got a deer a couple of days back. It’s hanging there in a tree for the night. You can help yourself.”

The stocky man motioned to one of his men to retrieve the venison. Trace’s tension returned full force when the man returned with a petticoat.

Which of the women had left that?

The stocky man turned toward him. “You have a woman here?”

Trace shifted, unsure of how much to reveal.

The leader smiled. “Been a long time since we’ve seen a woman.”

Trace inclined his head toward the meat. “The deer, I’m willing to share.”

“Ah, come on, now. Be a sport. I just want to see a woman.”

Alarm and anger tightened the muscles at the back of his neck. He had to force the friendliness in his tone now. “Are there women in San Felipe?”

“Hope so,” the tall man chuckled, speaking for the first time.

“So who’ve you got hidden?” The man angled toward the wagon.

Trace stepped in front of him, gun weighing down his right hand. At this range, he wouldn’t miss, but he had one bullet and four men. And three women to keep safe. God help him.

The stocky man rocked back on his heels to look up at Trace, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Who is it? Your wife? Your sister?”

The other men moved closer, flanking him. Trace backed toward the wagon, unwilling to let the men get between him and the women. He wished he could see Kit, make eye contact and communicate with her as they had during the Indian attack. Instead, he had to hope she was listening, and that she trusted him.

“My wife is asleep with the little ones.” He forced some joviality into his tone, some sheepishness, hoping to appeal to the man, if he’d ever dealt with a woman who treasured the sleep of young children. “You can take the venison and move along.”

The man considered, measuring the threat Trace posed. For a moment, Trace thought he’d take the offer and leave. Instead he nodded to his men. Two of them went around Trace to either side of the wagon and yanked the cover back. A muffled squeal came from the wagon. The stocky man sent Trace a crooked grin.

“Your ’little ones’ appear to be awake.”

Trace lunged, swinging the butt of the rifle against the side of the smaller man’s head. Kit surged to her feet in the bed of the wagon, her own rifle drawn, primed to fire. Trace aimed at the tall thin man while gauging the threat of the man at his feet.

“Take the venison and go.” He spoke through his teeth, not wanting the strangers to hear the shaking in his voice. He had no desire to kill, but he would before he let one of them lay a hand on Kit or her family.

“I don’t think we will.” The stocky man rose to his knees, spitting blood from his mouth.

Trace leveled the rifle against his shoulder. “Your choice.”

Before he could fire, Kit did. Trace’s pulse spiked as Agnes and Mary screamed. Had she hit her target, or missed? As he turned to see, the stocky man surged off the ground and gripped the barrel of Trace’s rifle. Trace took his finger off the trigger and grasped the gun barrel to wrest it from his attacker. Behind him, Kit shrieked in alarm. Trace twisted the rifle free from the other man, struck him in the temple with it, and whirled toward Kit.

The tall man grabbed Kit’s wrist and she threw her weight back as he tried to pull her from the wagon. Agnes wrapped her arms around Kit’s waist as if to anchor her, while Mary cowered in the corner. Trace shouldered his rifle.

“Let her go.”

Another gunshot sounded. Trace pivoted to see where it had come from.

Six armed men rode into camp, rifles pointed at the sky as they surveyed the scene.

“Trace Watson,” one of the men drawled as the scoundrels scattered for their horses and four of the six men bolted in pursuit. “Might’ve known you’d be in some kind of trouble.”

Chapter Nine

Trace strode toward the man in the center of the group. He wouldn’t have recognized his schoolmate Almanzo Tarleton, with his full beard and rough clothes. A regular pioneer. Almanzo dropped to the ground beside his horse and clasped Trace’s hand and then his shoulder in enthusiastic greeting.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Trace asked, barely able to find his voice in his shock at the timely intervention.

Almanzo grinned. “What, aren’t you glad to see me?”

Trace blew out a laugh of relief. “More than you know.”

Almanzo’s gaze flicked past him to the women, who stood at the rear of the wagon, their postures defensive as they assessed the new threat. “Is this your family?”

Trace was surprised by how much he wanted to say yes. “It’s a long story,” he said instead. “We were heading for San Felipe.”

“You’re about there. We were chasing after these ruffians, who caused some trouble in the colony.” He kicked at the man who lay prone at Trace’s feet.

“What sort of trouble?” Kit approached to stand beside Trace, her gaze riveted on Almanzo.

Trace wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and run his hands over her body to make sure her assailant hadn’t harmed her. In the early morning light, he could see a bracelet of red about her wrist where the man had gripped her. He looked from her arm to her face, but her attention was on Almanzo.

Holding back the questions he wanted to pepper her with, he turned back to his friend. “Almanzo Tarleton, this is Mrs. Katherine Barclay. Those ladies are her mother-in-law Agnes Barclay and her sister-in-law Mary Barclay. They were at Fort Dryden.”

Almanzo’s eyes widened as he straightened from his bow in Kit’s direction. He tucked his hat back on his head. “I thought that fort was abandoned.”

Trace scowled. “These women were left behind.”

Almanzo’s eyebrows twitched upward. “And you came upon them?”

“They took me in. Like I said, long story. You say we’re close to the colony?”

Almanzo’s grin returned. “We can be there by suppertime.”

“What had those men done?” Kit asked again, her voice a little shaky.

“Ma’am, they were troublemakers from the States, thinking they could hide out in the colony. When Mr. Austin evicted them, they caused trouble. We just wanted to make sure they didn’t hurt anybody.”

Trace heard the word, “else,” though Almanzo didn’t say it. By the tightness in Kit’s posture, she heard it too.

Almanzo inclined his head toward the wagon. “Is that Atrius pulling the wagon? Good Lord, Trace.”

“We were left without a lot of options.”

“Right. Long story. Well, unhitch him and we’ll get these ladies into the settlement.”

“Our things,” protested Agnes, who overheard as she climbed down from the wagon with the help of Almanzo’s man.

“We’ll send someone back to get them, with a proper team. Were you ladies joining anyone in the colony?”

Kit tensed further and glanced at Trace.

“Her husband was killed,” Trace told Almanzo quietly. “But they had a grant.”

Almanzo frowned and shook his head. “We’ll work it out when we get there. Don’t worry. You’ll have someplace to stay.”

“And something besides porridge to eat.” Trace sent Kit an encouraging smile.

By the time the women had gathered the belongings they needed, the rest of Almanzo’s men had returned from chasing the assailants, without them. A frisson of wariness went through Trace. They’d have to keep watch. At least he wasn’t alone in protecting the women anymore. He placed Agnes with one of the Almanzo’s rangers and Mary with another, though she wanted to ride with Trace. Almanzo declared Atrius too worn out to carry two, so he took Kit and left Trace alone on his horse. Trace didn’t like the sight of Kit’s arms around Almanzo’s waist. Hell, he should have let Almanzo ride his horse so he could feel Kit’s arms. He wanted to take care of her, not hand her over to another man.

She was his.

The idea hit him square in the chest. His heart wasn’t ready to take on love again, to risk loss. And God knew Kit deserved better than he could offer. Male pride, that was all that was at stake here. He’d do well to remember that before both of them were hurt again.

***

As Almanzo promised, within a matter of hours they arrived at the colony, a place nothing like Trace had expected. Buildings lined a main road—a mercantile like Mary wanted, a church, the saloon and the land grant office—all made of cedar logs. Only a few houses were sprinkled among them.

“Most people build their house on their land and farm it,” Almanzo explained. “Some people are living in the settlement itself, but it’s not quite civilized.”

“What about a place where newcomers can stay? A boarding house?” Trace asked.

Almanzo shook his head. “No one’s been that enterprising yet. But I’ll be happy to put you up until we can find other arrangements.”

Trace glanced at Kit to see her reaction, knowing how she hated to accept help. She sat slumped in the saddle, and raised weary eyes to his.

“We would be most grateful,” she murmured.

“Are you not married?” Agnes asked when they drew the horses to a halt in front of one of the larger cabins.

“No, ma’am.”

“This is a big house for one man.”

“I don’t intend to be one man for long.” He dismounted and held his arms out for Kit. “Trace and I can bed down in the barn, and you ladies can have the run of the house. It’s got two nice bedrooms, a kitchen and a parlor.”

Kit straightened as she touched the ground. “We will not put you out of your home, Mr. Tarleton.”

“Ma’am, I’m insisting.” He touched the brim of his hat. “You ladies have fallen on hard times, and I would be no kind of gentleman if I didn’t do all in my power to help you back on your feet.”

Kit blushed and looked down at her hands. “I am sorry if I sounded ungrateful, sir.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Barclay. Now, let me see about getting you a hot bath to wash the road dirt from you.” He touched his hat again and disappeared into the house.

Kit turned to Trace, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure—he’s your good friend, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“I don’t want to take advantage.”

Trace rested his hand reassuringly on her upper arm, satisfying himself with the small touch when he wanted to pull her close. “Kit, it’s just for a few days until we can see what our choices are here, all right? Don’t worry.”

Agnes didn’t appear the least worried at the inconvenience they might cause. Instead, she peered after Almanzo into the house, and turned back, her eyes alight with glee and approval. “He has a servant!”

Indeed he did have one, and the young Mexican woman had the bath drawn for the women before long. Kit wasn’t sure how to react. She’d never had a servant before, but Agnes and Mary seemed right at home utilizing the young woman. The three women were sore after the extended time in the saddle, so they moved slowly, especially Agnes. Kit urged Mary to bathe first, followed by Agnes, while she inspected the cabin. It was both roomy and cozy, and still smelled of new wood. She sat on the large feather bed in the center of one bedroom, feeling idle as the girl, Graciela, stoked the fire, drew the water, and boiled corn on the stove in the next room. Kit’s mouth watered at the aroma. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch today, a fact she hadn’t realized until the scent of food filled the cabin.

Agnes and Mary had allowed the servant girl to help them undress and get into the water. Kit helped Graciela dump the dirty water while fresh water heated, and insisted on undressing herself.

“I’ll need help with my hair, though,” she admitted sheepishly as she unbuttoned her bodice.

The sight of her bloody chemise caught her by surprise. Her hands stiffened on her buttons before she remembered the deer, remembered reaching into its body, remembered everything she’d endured to get here, safe. She burst into tears, to the horror of Graciela, who darted out of the room and returned moments later with Trace. He crossed the room, head bent in concern.

“Kit, what’s wrong?”

She turned to him and ducked her head against his chest, her resistance gone, needing the reassurance of his arms as she wept out the anxieties of the last days, weeks, months. He smoothed his hand down her back and lifted it again to cup her head, holding her against his shoulder until her sobs weakened and her body went limp.

“Let’s get you into the water. Okay?” He pushed her skirts over her hips.

“Trace, you can’t.” She stepped back, pushing weakly against his shoulders. “Agnes and Mary—and what will Almanzo think?”

“Almanzo took them to the dry goods store. They should be there awhile. Let me do this for you, Kit.”

“You can’t. It’s not right. We’re in civilization now. It’s not proper.”

“This is hardly civilization,” he murmured as her skirts dropped to the ground. Then he reached for the hem of her bloody chemise and drew it up over her head, loosening her hair as he did.

She lifted her gaze to his and saw a heat there, but he banked it with tenderness as he held her hand to help her into the tub.

She sank into the warm water with a sigh, drawing her legs up, resting her cheek on her knees, her hair trailing in the water. Her eyes drifted closed. She heard the scrape of a chair over the floor, heard Trace lower his weight onto it. She heard the closing of a door next to the tub, and the swish of water as he dipped the washcloth into it.

“Trace,” she murmured as he stroked the cloth over her shoulders and down her spine in long, gentle strokes. The heat of the water and the caress of the cloth mesmerized her, sent her into drowsiness.

“You have beautiful skin. I love your skin.”

Awareness pulsed into desire as his words floated over her. She tamped it down with the last of her energy. “Mm.”

“You want me to wash your hair?”

“Mm.” She opened her eyes and looked into his as he leaned over her. “It’s a lot of work.”

“As much work as loading a cannon or cutting hay?”

She smiled at his teasing tone. “More.”

“Okay. I think I can handle it.”

“You need a pitcher or something.”

“I remember.”

Another scrape of the chair, and then a cascade of water. She stiffened as the warm water hit her scalp, and then his fingers followed, catching in her tangles as he eased the soap in her hair. So gentle. She hadn’t thought he could be so gentle.

No, not true. She knew just how gentle he could be.

“I’m sorry you have to sleep in the barn.”

“It’s a nice barn.” He scrubbed the base of her skull, fingers digging into the flesh. “Warmer than sleeping by the fire. Not as warm as sleeping with you.”

She tensed again.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his fingers caressing her temples.

“I just don’t know what to do next. I didn’t think that far ahead. I almost always figure things out until the end. I should have figured out where we would stay when we got here.”

“You didn’t know what you’d find,” he reminded her. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to figure it out today, all right?” He poured more warm water over her hair and worked the soap out, again and again. “Were you always like this?”

“Hm?” She lifted her head, opening her eyes again. “Like what?”

“Controlling. Have you always been, or has it just been since you were alone in the fort?”

“Always I’ve needed to know what was going to happen next. The control is new.”

“Not going to be able to let it go, are you?”

She smiled. “I gladly would if I could.”

He made a sound, as if he wanted to say something else, and dug his fingers into her hair again.

She was limp with fatigue by the time he was done. He stood to leave, to allow her to bathe in private. A few moments later, Graciela returned with a fine lawn chemise.

“Where did you get this?”

“Mr. Tarleton brought it for his bride.”

“His bride?” Kit met the girl’s gaze in surprise. “I didn’t know he was to marry.”

“He brought a trousseau from the States, for his bride.”

“He thinks he’s going to meet a woman out here?” The desire to have clean clothes beat out her curiosity about Almanzo’s intentions and she slipped the chemise over her head, flipping her wet hair loose.

“There are girls who come to San Felipe with their families. He thinks he’ll marry one of them.”

Kit smoothed the fine fabric over her stomach. She hadn’t worn anything this nice in so long. The fabric made her feel feminine and lovely. “I’ll pay him for it.”

“Mr. Watson already did.”

He did. Of course he did. Now, if only he could see her in it.

No, she had to stop thinking like that. They weren’t in the wilderness now, and they had to accept society’s mores. She shouldn’t have allowed him to wash her hair. Graciela could have helped her. Kit had to remember to act like a proper lady again.

And then what?

She’d told Trace the truth about needing to know what came next. Now she didn’t even have a place to call her own.

Graciela helped her brush out her hair and wind it into a respectable style. Kit put one of her cleaner dresses over the damp chemise before stepping out of the warm bedroom.

Trace, Almanzo, Agnes and Mary sat in the adjoining parlor. Trace and Almanzo rose to greet her as she apologized for taking so long, but her words were drowned out as Mary launched into an excited inventory of the dry goods store, around a mouthful of hard candy. Kit smiled. The girl wouldn’t have been so impressed ten months ago, after leaving New Orleans, but after months of doing without, the small store had to seem like paradise.

“Do you want to go see it, Kit? You’ll love it. They don’t have any fabric, I’m afraid, but they have cotton thread. Maybe we could remake one of my dresses.”

How hard must their situation have seemed to a girl who’d once had so much? Kit had never allowed herself to see how her sister-in-law had worked to adjust. One more sin to lie at John’s feet. She smiled at Mary now. “Perhaps after dinner, we’ll walk down there.”

“It’s so lovely to be around people again,” Agnes said with a happy smile. “Tomorrow we can go to Mass. Mr. Tarleton told me the service at the church is very nice. And he said Graciela will do our laundry so we can have something clean to wear.”

Kit stiffened, torn between wanting to hand over the responsibility and feeling guilt for taking the girl from her other duties. Before she could say anything, Graciela announced dinner was ready.

More embarrassment flooded Kit as the three women tore into the meal, as if they’d been starving. In her hunger, she could barely remember her manners. The pork flavoring the beans was tasty, the corn sweet, and the bread fluffy with a delicious crust. And there was butter. Kit wanted to cry at the feast. She looked up to see Trace watching her, a mixture of amusement and tenderness on his face. Her own face heating, she set her corncob down and sat back.

“This is very good, very generous,” she told Mr. Tarleton. “I don’t know how we can repay you.”

The men exchanged a glance. Trace’s eyebrows went up in an I-told-you-so motion.

“You’re not to worry about it, Mrs. Barclay. Please. I want you to make yourself at home.”

She smiled at the permission he’d just given her. “I’ll be happy to.”

After the meal, she chased Graciela away from the dishes and helped the young woman start the laundry in the yard.

“This isn’t what he meant by making yourself at home,” Trace drawled.

Kit jolted and turned to find him too close. She hadn’t heard him cross the yard; his steps were muffled by the grass. She chided herself for letting her guard down. This was still the frontier and she needed to be more alert.

Trace grinned, relieving her of the heated pot in her hands and hauling it to the cauldron in the center of the yard.

She swept her hair from her face with the back of her hand. “I won’t have this girl working herself to the bone because her master was kind enough to take us in.”

Trace dumped the water over the clothes as Graciela stirred. He turned to Kit. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve had a hell of a trip. Can’t you take one day to rest?”

Though she was as tired as she’d ever been, she shook her head and planted her aching hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t be able to rest knowing she’s doing my work. And it’s not my home—what else am I going to do?”

“Let’s walk into town. You can see what Mary was chattering about.”

“That’s not going to help me know what to do next.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “And laundry is?”

She turned back to the kettle, though she couldn’t do anything as Graciela stirred the clothes around in the pot, dissolving the soap flakes. “At least I feel like I’m doing something.”

He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Show me what to do.”

“Trace.” But she allowed him to chase Graciela off and to take over stirring as she removed each dress and scrubbed it on the washboard before dunking it in a clean pot of water and wringing out the fabric. Her arms ached as her mind was preoccupied with wondering what next. She didn’t want to stay even one night at this stranger’s house. She was accustomed to being on her own.

She hadn’t realized how much her independence meant to her. Would she be able to retain it in this place, in any place?

“Perhaps tomorrow we can walk down to the land grant office,” she said.

Trace heaved the next dress out of the water. “Almanzo said Mr. Austin is back in the States for a few weeks.”

“No one else can tell us anything?”

“Not according to Almanzo.”

She gave the fabric a vicious shake before draping it on the line. “I hate depending on him, Trace.”

“I see that. You need to rethink your need to be in control.”

“Who will take my place?” She turned to him, leaning on the stick she’d used to stir the cooling fabric.

Something like panic flickered across his face. What did she expect—that he’d embrace the idea of taking on three women who he’d known a few weeks, all because he was having relations with her? She didn’t want him to assume the duty, not that way. “I can’t afford to let go. I have responsibilities.”

“Of two grown women.”

“Who don’t know the first thing about taking care of anything.”

“And who never will if you don’t give them a chance.” A corner of his mouth twitched as he drew a petticoat from the hot water and twisted it.

She took it from him. “I’m sure Agnes doesn’t want you touching her undergarments.”

He dropped the garment back in the water and lifted his hands away. She laughed at his exaggerated horror.

He crowded close for the next armful of fabric.

“You’re making it very hard for me to think,” she murmured, turning to the laundry.

“That was the idea.”

Despite her better judgment, a smile quirked the corner of her mouth. She liked him, too much. Staying away from him would be difficult, especially since she didn’t want to. But for propriety’s sake, she needed to.

Her arms were weak when she finished hanging the last dress on the line. Her hair began to fall free of its bun as she turned to Trace. He scooped her hair from her face and held it there so she could repin it. She looked up wearily.

“All right. I’m tired now.”

He rolled down his sleeves and picked up his jacket. He draped it over her shoulders and guided her back into the house, where Mary was eating candy and Agnes was knitting in front of the fire.

“Give me a moment and we’ll walk into town,” she said to Trace, so tired now she could barely form the words.

“I want to go!” Mary said.

“In a while.” Trace urged Kit toward a door. “Why don’t you rest a bit first?”

She nodded and stepped into the room. A bed never looked so good, and within minutes, she was asleep.

***

“You watching that door isn’t going to make her come out,” Almanzo whispered to Trace after supper, leaning in close.

Mary had tried a dozen times to go wake Kit, but Trace had stopped her, convincing her the town would still be there in a few days and that she owed Kit the luxury of a nap. At least she’d been able to shut down her worries long enough to sleep. But when she slept through supper, he started feeling fidgety himself.

“No, it’s good she sleeps,” Almanzo said. “She’ll just be hungry, but Graciela can keep supper warm.” He eased back to look at his friend. “What is she to you?”

Trace didn’t know how to answer, though he should have been prepared for the question. Almanzo wasn’t an idiot. But he hadn’t attempted to define their relationship himself. To do so felt too much like a plan. What did he want her to be, other than the woman in his bed? He wanted her in his life and this moment couldn’t imagine a day without her, but he couldn’t say so. It would reveal too much, and would betray his wife’s memory. He avoided his friend’s gaze.

“I’m still in mourning for Angelina.”

Almanzo sat back and tapped the rim of his coffee mug. “I think you’re only fooling yourself.”

No, the truth was, he wasn’t fooling himself at all.

***

Kit woke in the dark and heard her mother-in-law’s snoring in the next bed. What time was it? She rose quietly and made her way out of the unfamiliar room, into the sitting room, where the fire burned under the urging of Graciela, who looked up at Kit’s entrance.

“Did I sleep all night?” she asked the girl.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just getting breakfast before church.”

“Let me help you.”

“No, ma’am!” The girl dusted her hands on her apron. “Bad enough I let you do the laundry for me yesterday.”

“Graciela, it was my laundry.”

“Mr. Tarleton didn’t see it that way.”

Kit stiffened. “Did he say something to you?”

“No, ma’am.” But the girl didn’t meet her eyes.

That was enough of a clue for Kit. She squared her shoulders. “Are the gentlemen up yet?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, they’re in the barn.”

“All right.” She crossed the room to the stove, wrapping her own apron over her skirt. “What did you plan to make for breakfast? I’ll get it started.”

***

Agnes practically danced with delight when Mr. Tarleton brought an open carriage around for them, though it was not as fine as the one she’d had in New Orleans. Almanzo handed her up and she settled in like the grandest lady. Graciela had pressed their best dresses—the ones that suffered the least wear, and Agnes and Mary adjusted their skirts around them. The sun was bright as they traveled to church, and the weather was a bit warmer than it had been.

People streamed to the small whitewashed clapboard building, greeting each other noisily and observing little solemnity. They turned to watch Mr. Tarleton’s carriage in open curiosity when the women alighted. Agnes took Mr. Tarleton’s arm as he led the way into the pew, leaving Kit to share Trace with Mary.

The church was simple and smelled of new wood, with oiled paper windows lighting the interior in a sort of gloom, but Kit agreed with Agnes—hearing the words and participating in the ceremony of the Mass again was comforting.

Listening to Trace stumble through the hymns amused her more than it should have. As lovely as his speaking voice was, deep and soothing, he couldn’t sing. Kit hid her amusement behind her hand, but caught his sideways glance. He knew she was laughing at him.

Trace hadn’t thought he’d return to church ever, not after the funeral of Angelina and his son. But this little church wasn’t the same as the church in New Orleans. The priest was a Mexican with a heavy accent, not as pompous as the French priest back home. He didn’t declare great rewards in heaven, but preached about serving your fellow man. Trace could live with that message. He went unthinkingly through the motions of the Mass until he heard an unladylike snort beside him during one of the sung responses and saw laughter in Kit’s eyes.

So he didn’t sing so well. But the idea that his lack of talent made Kit laugh—something he’d not seen her do often—delighted him. So he sang louder, more off-key, until other churchgoers turned with chiding looks. He backed down as the song ended, but beside him, Kit quivered with suppressed giggles. On her other side, Agnes elbowed her, and Kit struggled for a straight face, her attention on her prayer book.

“That’s very rude, you know,” he murmured once they were out of the church and standing in the yard while people approached Almanzo to meet the newcomers.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, still fighting a smile. “You have other talents, I’m sure.”

He turned, blocking her view of the others, not wanting them to hear what he said. “Do I?”

She blushed deeply, taking his meaning. “Mr. Watson.” Her gaze flicked past him. “You’re not likely to use that skill for a while.”

“Really.” All he could think of was tasting her.

She avoided his gaze. “Too many people.”

She nudged at his shoulder to turn him around as Almanzo approached with neighbors for them to meet. Trace noticed a good number of them were single men, and he moved closer to Kit before he realized what the move meant. The men understood, though, and greeted Kit with a respectful nod before turning their obvious interest to Mary, who widened her eyes at the sudden attention. Of course. She hadn’t been of age the last time she’d been in society. She likely never thought her first suitors would be these rough-looking men.

Kit shrank beside Trace as the stream of people came by to greet them. Trace wasn’t sure how word of the women’s survival at the fort had spread so quickly, but everyone seemed to want to ask about it. Kit’s bashfulness shouldn’t have surprised him—she was a modest woman after all—but he’d always seen her as strong, facing things head-on. This attention, however, she didn’t seem to want to deal with.

Trace noticed that Almanzo had positioned himself beside Mary as she answered the questions Kit wouldn’t. Interesting.

“There were Indians?” one young mother asked, her eyes wide, her voice tinged with glee. “Did you see them?”

“We fought them,” Mary replied, shoulders straight, voice proud, avoiding Trace’s surprised gaze. Kit started coughing beside him. “They took our cow.”

Finally, curiosity satisfied, the neighbors moved on and Almanzo escorted the ladies to the carriage.

“Kit and I are going to walk,” Trace announced.

Kit spun, lifting her eyebrows. “We are?”

“It’s a beautiful day, and there’s nothing you need to hurry back for. Graciela has the meal in hand.” He took her arm and drew her away from the carriage. “We won’t be too far behind you,” he called back to the others.

“Trace, you’re going to raise a scandal,” she protested as the carriage drove off, her mother-in-law watching her reprovingly, her sister-in-law regretfully. “We cannot indulge in relations here, or even consider it. We just attended Mass!”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that,” he lied. Because if he could have found a warm place to make love to her, they’d have made their way straight there. Instead, they strolled down the dusty road, past winter-dry grass, out in the sun, away from the shade offered by the live oaks. They were not the only people taking advantage of the beautiful day. Other churchgoers moved in groups ahead and behind them. “Though I wouldn’t mind stealing a kiss or two.”

Her indignation melted into a smile. “You need not steal them if we can find privacy.”

“Which we don’t have at Almanzo’s house.”

She sighed. “I need to speak with him. He invites me to make myself at home, but when I attempt to do so, he chides poor Graciela.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was scolded for allowing me to help with the laundering of my own clothes. I must speak with him, make him understand I can only accept so much of his charity.”

“You have the most incredible sense of pride,” he murmured.

“He’s a stranger to me,” she reminded him sharply. “He owes me nothing, and yet he’s giving up his own roof for the comfort of me and my family.”

“But he owes me a great deal.”

“Is that so? Why?”

“He claims I was the one in trouble, but he was the one I had to rescue again and again before his father found out. He was always in one scrape or another, gambling, drinking, whoring.”

Kit blushed to the roots of her hair. “This is the man whose home you bring us to?”

“He was very young. We both were. I had better judgment. And I had Angelina to keep me steady.”

He no longer felt as sad when he talked about Angelina. Was he emerging from his grief? It was too soon. He’d loved her too much and too long to be done grieving her now. He released Kit’s arm and edged away from her, knowing she was the reason, wishing he could love her without feeling guilty, without feeling as if he were betraying Angelina.

“Would you have been wild without her?” she asked, as if she hadn’t noticed the distance he put between them.

He inclined his head in concession. “Perhaps. My father thought I was wild enough, mainly because I wouldn’t join him in his business.”

“Which was?”

“Shipping. “

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was fascinated by the law. My father considered it a soft profession, since it didn’t involve working my way up with my hands the way he planned for me to.”

“You’re a lawyer? I’ve known you all these weeks—why did I not know that?”

“Because I don’t like to talk about what I left behind.”

“But surely, a lawyer would be a good profession anywhere.” Her boots kicked up a puff of dirt as she cocked her head up at him.

“Mr. Austin is a lawyer. I doubt he needs another in his colony.”

“So what do you intend to do? Have you thought about it? Just because my future is uncertain doesn’t mean yours should be.”

Trepidation filled her voice. Did she hope he’d stay? He’d not been certain of anything when he left New Orleans, but he was sure he wasn’t ready to walk away from her, no matter the depth of his guilt. “Stay here awhile,” he said, “see what there is to be had. Maybe move on after that. Maybe go home.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “You don’t know.”

Of course his uncertainty would bother her, she who needed a plan for everything. “Kit, I took this trip to get away from my life. I wasn’t moving toward something, I was moving away.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have a plan.”

“And how well have your plans worked out for you?” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. She had control over so little. At least she had her strategies.

She drew in a breath and her mouth tightened. “I cannot help that my husband died. It wasn’t my choice.”

“Nor was it mine that I buried my wife and son.” He tried to soothe her ruffled feathers with his tone, but didn’t back off. He needed to make her understand his choices. “I thought I would be watching my son learn to crawl on the floor of my office, be making love to my wife, perhaps giving her another child. I thought I would be attending balls and meeting with important clients and standing before judges. Plans didn’t help me then, why would they help me now?”

She didn’t answer, only trudged along beside him, every line in her body tight enough to snap. He’d effectively erased the joy she’d felt earlier, destroying the relaxed mood, and the knowledge hurt.

“Kit, I’m sorry.”

She stopped with a sigh and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need to be. I just want to know what’s going to happen next.”

He turned, barely stopping himself from touching her. She didn’t want people to be scandalized, and his familiarity would raise questions among the other churchgoers who walked past. “No one knows what’s going to happen next, Kit. Isn’t that why you make love with me? Because of the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring?”

“That’s not the only reason.”

He grinned when she blushed. “I know that, but it’s the one that you give yourself permission to believe. The last thing you tell yourself before you leave your bed to come to mine.”

She tightened her wrap, not against the chill, but against the truth of his words, and began walking again. “That’s not so.”

“No?”

“It’s not the last thing I tell myself.” She tossed her head, and her eyes brightened teasingly. “I tell myself that you are very warm, and if there’s one thing I despise as much as uncertainty, it’s being cold.”

He scowled. “Are you cold now?”

“Decidedly not.”

“I believe you are.” He glanced around, saw their fellow walkers had faded out of sight, and tugged her behind a tree, pinning her body between his and the trunk. He should have been remembering his resolve to keep his distance. Instead, he closed his hands about her ribs, not allowing himself the liberty of touching her breasts, though he nudged his hips into hers.

She didn’t protest, did nothing more than smile up at him in challenge. He covered her soft mouth with his, teasing her lips apart before plunging his tongue between them. Instead of pushing him away as she should have, she twined her fingers through his hair and held him closer, pressing her body against his, her tongue sliding along his. He broke the kiss to a sound of protest, coasted his mouth up her jaw to her ear, down her throat, the same path he took when he made love to her. His hands shook with the urge to cup her breasts—her shawl hid his touch, after all, and his manhood pulsed with the desire to be inside her. He had meant this to just be a teasing kiss, not to give into this hunger for her. He stepped back, releasing her.

She sagged against the tree, brows drawn together in confusion. “Why?”

“Because you deserve better.” Better than being taken against a tree on the side of the road. Than being loved by a man who didn’t want to plan for anything ever again, who could move on so quickly after losing the wife he’d claimed to love. “We should get back before they come looking for us.”

She didn’t question the logic of his statement, just took his arm and fell into step.

***

After the dinner that Kit helped Graciela prepare, Almanzo, Kit and Trace sat in the sun in front of Almanzo’s cabin while Mary and Agnes tidied. Unaccustomed to being idle, Kit brought out her knitting. In addition to occupying her hands, the task would keep her gaze from wandering to Trace, who stretched his long legs in front of him and tilted his head back to the sun, eyes closed, so beautiful and healthy…

Perhaps the knitting wasn’t as distracting as she’d hoped. She redoubled her efforts and twisted the yarn about her hand, pulling it taut.

“Almanzo was telling me every man pulls his weight here in San Felipe,” Trace told her, shifting in his chair.

Her rhythm faltered. He was planning to stay, then. Or at least looking into the option of it. Her heart thudded with excitement and anticipation.

“I thought I’d ride out with the rangers on their next reconnaissance.”

She let the knitting fall to her lap and stared. “Trace.” They’d so recently been in danger and now he wanted to return to it? Granted, he’d be with armed men and would return to the colony, but her stomach clenched to think of him encountering dangerous men like those they’d met earlier this week.

Just like John.

She pushed the thought out of her head. She would not live her life waiting for history to repeat itself.

“I know what you’re going to say. I’m not the best shot.”

She had thought it, but didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friend.

Almanzo chuckled. “So that hasn’t changed?”

“I can show you what John showed me,” she offered. She didn’t know why she hadn’t considered it before, except that ammunition had been dear when they were on their own, and target practice didn’t seem practical. Now they had the means to replace their ammunition. If Trace was going to be facing brigands and Indians, she wanted him prepared. She wasn’t ready to lose him.

“Better men than you have tried,” Trace said, humor lacing his voice.

She tucked her knitting at her side. “But there’s the difference. I’m no man. I’ll get my gun.”

Almanzo clapped his hand to his chest. “Words I love to hear from a woman’s lips. I’ll set up the targets.”

***

Trace convinced Almanzo and Kit not to teach him in front of the cabin. Humiliating enough that he couldn’t shoot, but to have the whole town know was more than his pride could take. So the three of them trekked down to the river behind the cabin, Kit carrying her rifle in one hand, Agnes’s protests that it was not ladylike ringing in their wake.

“Kit’s marksmanship is superb,” Trace said with pride as Almanzo set a series of rocks on a boulder at the water’s edge. “She shot a duck and a deer on the journey here.”

Almanzo sent an admiring glance in Kit’s direction, which hadn’t been Trace’s intention. “Mary said you fought of the Indians, too,” Almanzo said.

“I didn’t have much choice.” She brushed off the approbation and handed Trace the rifle.

He took the gun and brought it to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel. He jolted when Kit’s small hands tugged at his hips, and he looked over his shoulder to grin at her, catching Almanzo’s raised eyebrows as he did.

But Kit was solemn as she adjusted his stance, her hands just below his belt. “You need to set your feet apart just a bit more. Shoulder width.”

He ground his teeth against the desire that pulsed through his blood. Remembering Almanzo’s presence—and interested attention—he edged his feet apart in the dust. She dropped her hands away, stepping back. He considered changing his position again, just to feel her hands on him.

As if she’d read his thoughts, she curved her fingers on his shoulders, pulling them straight. She let them linger there for a moment, smoothing along the seams of his shirt. A pleasant sensation buzzed through him. Perhaps target practice could be fun after all.

“Square your shoulders,” she said, her breath warm against his back. “You’re hunched over.” She smoothed her hand down his spine before letting it fall away. He resisted the urge to turn to her, to meet her gaze, to see if her thoughts traveled the same path as his.

But no, her voice was businesslike when she said, “Now sight down the barrel and pull the trigger.”

He balanced the gun, aimed and squeezed. The bullet made a splash in the river. He grimaced, his pride taking a direct hit.

“Again.”

“She’d make a very fine commander,” Almanzo remarked, as Trace reloaded and fired again. And missed.

He heard no sound from behind him, so he lifted his head and turned to Kit, who watched him assessingly, her finger tapping her lips.

“What do you think, Mr. Tarleton?”

“He doesn’t look comfortable holding the gun.”

Trace loosened his grip on the weapon.

“Who taught you to shoot?” she asked, her gaze on the rifle.

“My father, when I was young. Friends since have tried.”

She stepped forward and took the gun, holding it in front of her. “Which is your stronger eye?”

“My stronger eye?” He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Try something. Turn toward me.”

He let a grin lift the corners of his lips. “Not a hardship.”

She met his gaze with a lifted eyebrow and his grin fell away. He turned to face her, toe to toe. She lifted the rifle between them.

“Try holding it against your left shoulder, and pulling the trigger with your left hand.”

He frowned, but took the gun from her and did as she instructed, sighting down the barrel. The movement felt more natural than any other time he’d picked up a weapon. Without waiting, he reloaded and fired—and hit the first rock. Twin shouts of triumph went up behind him. He reloaded and fired again, and hit the second.

He turned to Almanzo. “Let me see your pistol.”

Almanzo stepped forward, grinning, and handed it over. Trace checked it, loaded, and shot the last rock off the boulder. He handed the gun back to his friend and swept Kit into his arms, swinging her around.

“How did you know?” he asked, setting her down and smoothing her hair back from her face.

Self-conscious, she backed away from him with a glance at Almanzo and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “When I was growing up, one of the neighbor boys shot ‘backwards,’ they called it. I’ve never seen anyone do it before, or since, but I thought, maybe…”

“Because you’re a smart woman.”

She blushed and took a step up the bank toward the house. “I’m going to see if Graciela needs help with supper.” She pivoted away from the men and hurried up the hill.

***

“It’s not fair, you know,” Almanzo said, sitting back in the chair at his kitchen table and pouring another glass of whiskey.

The women had gone to bed, the fire was dying in the grate, and Trace and Almanzo were sharing a batch of homemade whiskey Almanzo had acquired from one of the settlers. It was nigh on terrible, but the glow it sent through his body was almost as good as sleeping beside Kit.

“What’s not?” Trace shifted his glass closer to Almanzo with the tips of his fingers.

“You finding two such incredible women, when some of us can’t find one.”

Trace considered misunderstanding. Instead, he remained quiet.

“She’s in love with you. I could see it today in the way she looked at you.”

“She’s grateful to me,” Trace said, pushing the idea from his head. “You’ve seen how she has to keep the scale balanced. She feels she owes me.”

“It’s more than that. The way she touched you—there’s something more there.” Almanzo narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You haven’t used her situation to take advantage of her, have you?”

There was no taking advantage about it. Trace had considered, when Kit first came to him, that she was doing so in payment for his help, but he’d dismissed the thought almost immediately. No woman repaying a debt could be so passionate.

The whiskey no longer dulled his senses, and he shifted in his chair to ease his growing desire. As grateful as he was that they were safe, he missed the isolation that allowed them to be alone.

“Are you going to stay in San Felipe?”

Everyone wanted to know his plans. Trace tensed again. “I don’t know yet.” He would wait to see what Kit learned from Mr. Austin, and then decide his next step.

Even that was more connection than he wanted, but he couldn’t pull himself away from her.

Almanzo replaced the cork in the whiskey bottle and rose, swaying slightly. “You’re a fool if you walk away. No man should ever be so lucky twice.”

***

Trace woke to the sound of rustling hay and turned on his bedroll to see a vision in white standing over him, lit in the moonlight that spilled through the open window at the apex of the barn’s roof. He scrambled up to sitting.

“Kit, what’s wrong?”

She lifted his bedroll and nudged him with her knee. He scooted over obligingly.

“Almanzo is just over there,” he protested, raising on his elbows and trying to see his friend in the darkness.

“He’s gone to Graciela.”

He reached past the sleep cobwebs in his head to comprehend her words. “How do you know?”

“I watched him leave. I couldn’t sleep.” She tucked her arm across his waist and rested her head against his chest.

There was nothing sexual in her touch, but his body responded to her closeness, her scent. He stared at the window, willing himself to stay in control. “You can’t do this every time you can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to go?” she asked, her voice low with the confidence of a woman who already knew the answer.

“Agnes is bound to find out.” A thought occurred to him. “You aren’t doing this so she will get mad, are you? To break away from her?”

“All I want to break away from is being sad all the time. You make me happy.” Her fingers stroked the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t want you to go out with the rangers tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Don’t you have confidence in your teaching?”

She lifted her head to rest her chin on his chest, her face partly illuminated by the moonlight through the high window. “We’re only just now safe. And you’re ready to put yourself in danger again.”

“I want to do my part. We might not have fared so well if Almanzo and his rangers hadn’t arrived when they did.”

“I know but—I’m afraid.” To counter the vulnerability of her words, she cocked her head and smiled. “I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

Her confession warmed him more than he wanted to admit, and made his heart swell. He turned onto his side to stroke his thumb over her cheek. “Not just the lovemaking?” The question revealed his own insecurities, and he regretted it the moment it left his mouth.

She reached up to trail her fingers over his jaw, his lips. “Seeing you, hearing you, touching you. And making love to you.”

She reached down and lifted her gown, then unfastened his long johns as she eased him onto his back, lying over him, her breasts against his chest, guiding him into her with a little gasp. He moaned at the suddenness of her move, and in surprise at how ready she was, how slick. She began to move, just little bumps and slides that were sweet and a little awkward and arousing as hell. He got harder and harder as her body moved shallowly up and down his sex in a strange rhythm, as her mouth sought his. He fisted his hands in the skirt of her gown so he wouldn’t tumble her onto her back and plow into her like a mad man. Without warning, she found her release, her sex growing slicker, clenching him, and she sat over him, straddling, bringing him deeper.

He couldn’t help himself. His hips surged upward, into her tight body, again and again until he came, pulsing into her body.

Perhaps creating a child.

It was the first time he’d had the thought follow so hard on the heels of making love to her, the first time he’d considered becoming a father again that the idea didn’t scare the life from him. Instead he drew her over him, wrapping both arms around her and pressing kisses into her hair as he caught his breath.

The first words he wanted to say were, “I love you.”

Now that scared the life out of him, because he did. Loving someone, then losing her, was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“You’re very quiet,” she murmured, resting her chin on the back of her hand to look up at him.

“A touch overwhelmed.”

“By my need to be in control?”

“No, I like your need to be in control very much.” He gave into his urge to curve his hands over her hips, and then he slid them down her buttocks to her thighs.

She sucked in her breath, and her eyes darkened as he grew hard inside her again.

“Do you feel like taking control again?”

“I might be willing to—oh! To give it up. Just this once.”

With a chuckle, he tumbled her onto her back.

Chapter Ten

Kit couldn’t sit still the following day. She’d walked into town with Mary twice—the girl was going to rot her teeth out with all the sugar she’d had the past two days—and had helped Graciela shuck the corn for dinner. But she couldn’t settle down to the mending.

Trace had ridden out with the rangers this morning. Kit forced herself to stay away from the window but couldn’t help tensing every time she heard hooves pounding the ground outside.

Almanzo had said it would be a short reconnaissance, that they should be home for dinner, but Kit couldn’t set aside the terror that she’d never see Trace again.

After all, hadn’t John been on patrol when he was killed by bandits?

“Worrying won’t bring them back sooner,” Agnes said without looking up from her own mending. Her mouth was tight, disapproving, but Kit didn’t have the strength to hide her emotions just now. “You need something to occupy your thoughts, not just your hands.”

Kit had considered reading, but knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. “Perhaps I’ll write a letter to my mother. I did see some stationery at the general store.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Mary was on her feet, ready to accompany Kit. Agnes sighed and set aside her sewing. “Those people who own the mercantile are going to be tired of seeing us.”

***

But when Kit sat down to start the letter to her mother on the fine stationery with her new pen, she didn’t know what to say. How could she tell her mother in a letter that John and Daniel were dead?

Her mother was a practical woman and knew the dangers of life on the frontier, but could she bear learning of the death of her only grandchild in a letter? Kit didn’t even know if the letter would make it to the States.

She took a deep breath, hand quivering, before she dipped the quill in ink and began.

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know I have not written in a long while. We were quite isolated at Fort Dryden and were unable to mail letters out.

John was killed in a battle with brigands near a town they call Nacogdoches. By the time we received word, winter had set in. You may expect winters here to be mild, but not so. Accompanying the miserable freezing weather was a sickness that killed the soldiers with us and sickened Mary and Daniel.

Kit sat back. She’d never written the words and didn’t know if she could express her sorrow and pain. Her mother would understand, having lost three children of her own, though she had remained stoic. Kit had thought of that often as she mourned her husband and child but couldn’t make herself remain impassive. She hadn’t even wanted to.

Mary recovered after a long illness, but my little Daniel wasn’t strong enough. Despite my best efforts, I left my baby boy buried in the cold Texas ground and came west with the help of a Louisiana man, Trace Watson. We are now safely ensconced in San Felipe, waiting for word on John’s grant from Stephen Austin, the empresario of the colony. Only then will we decide our next step.

Kit studied the letter, surprised she was able to compile all that had transpired in a letter not quite a page in length, that she was able to relay all the facts and none of the emotions tied with the death of her husband and child, and her feelings for this new man. Was it her audience that prevented her from indulging in the emotions, or her own barriers?

She had just tucked the letter away when she heard hoofbeats outside.

She was on her feet and across the room just as the door opened and Trace stepped in. Her heart pounded when he grinned at her, as if he’d been away a week instead of a matter of hours. She folded her hands into fists to stop herself from throwing herself into his arms, too aware of Agnes and Mary behind her, and Almanzo behind Trace.

“We ate already,” she said, not sure what else to say. “Graciela kept dinner warm for you.”

“We’ll be in after we see to the horses.” Trace dipped his head to look into Kit’s eyes. “I found a strange kind of plant and I brought a bit of it along. Do you want to see if you know what it is?”

“How on earth would Kit know what it is?” Agnes asked, but Kit understood his meaning. She reached for her wrap as Agnes said, “Why don’t you just bring it in here? It’s only a plant, after all.”

Kit and Trace didn’t acknowledge her. Kit walked beside him as he gathered the reins and led Atrius down the path to the barn. Kit glanced around to see that Almanzo had stayed at the house. Did he also understand the plant had been a pretext to get her alone?

Trace allowed her to precede him into the barn, then closed the door and let Atrius loose. The moment his hands were free, he swept Kit up in his arms, just as she’d wanted him to do when he walked into the cabin. She had a moment to register the scent of outdoors and horse before his mouth covered hers. She locked her arms around his shoulders and pressed against his big strong body as her tongue tangled with his, their breaths mingling as his hands closed over her back and drew her nearer.

The taste of her own tears surprised her as much as him. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, stroking her hair back from her face.

“Kit?”

“I was worried, was all.” She loosened her grip from his shoulders, smoothing her palms down the front of his coat before she trusted herself to look into his eyes.

“Don’t you trust your shooting lessons?” One dimple winked.

She cocked her head and pressed her lips together primly. “Oh, I trust them.” She blinked, not wanting to bring her husband into this, not when Trace’s taste was still on her lips, when she wanted another kiss. But he watched her steadily, so she gave in.

“John was a talented soldier and it didn’t save him.”

Trace stepped back, but she didn’t get the sense that he was withdrawing from her, only giving her space.

“That’s been on your mind all day?”

“Since you said you wanted to ride with the rangers.”

“I’m sorry. I should have thought.”

“Trace, you don’t have to make your decisions for me.” She didn’t want to be burden his mind further.

He trailed his fingertips down her cheek. She closed her eyes and turned into his touch.

“I don’t want to scare you. I’ll find something else to do.”

She opened her eyes and glared at him. “No. Don’t you dare. I saw your smile when you came in. You enjoyed yourself. I will not be the person who stops you from doing something that makes you happy.”

He curved his hand around her cheek. “You make me happy,” he said, echoing her words from last night.

She edged toward the door. She wouldn’t be his responsibility, nor would she take the responsibility for him. “We should get back. They’ll be wondering. But you should—not worry about me.” And she wouldn’t show him her weakness again.

***

“I’ve decided what to do,” Kit told Trace the next day as they walked behind Mary to the dry goods store. She’d made her decision last night and had intended to talk to him, but being close to him, smelling him, feeling him aroused other needs. She blushed just thinking about it.

“Already?”

“I like having a plan.”

“So what is your plan?” His tone was so amiable. She wondered what it would be after she told him.

“I want to go home to New Orleans, if I can find a way to pay our passage.”

“New Orleans.”

As she expected, his mood darkened. She had almost hoped he’d say he was returning, too, but maybe he couldn’t make that choice. Maybe he could never return to the place where he’d loved and lost his family. Maybe she would not see him again if she chose to do this.

“Why?”

“Mary and Agnes miss it so much—the city, the people, and all the amenities. The only reason they came out here was because John asked them to.”

“And you? Do you miss it that much?”

She forced a laugh. “I got used to not being around so many people. But I want a home.” More than anything.

“Are you going to make all your choices from now on based on what Agnes and Mary want?”

“No, of course not, but I need to consider their desires. They have not been this happy in a long time.”

“So they’re content here.”

“Not as content as they will be in New Orleans.”

“Are you happy?”

She turned and looked up into his handsome face, wanting so much to touch him, to make him feel what she was feeling. “Happier than I thought I could be again.”

“So why are you making a choice now? Why not wait until Mr. Austin returns and see what your options are then?”

“Do you want me to stay, Trace?” Her face heated and she dropped her gaze, wishing she hadn’t asked it. She wasn’t sure what his answer would be.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.

What does that mean? But Mary was calling to them from the porch of the dry goods store, and she couldn’t ask him.

Going into the store was still a treat to her deprived senses. Kit wandered up and down the aisles, touching cans and jars and sacks of flour and dry corn. If they stayed, she could make a dress from these sacks. The supply of items was nothing to that of New Orleans, but so much after being in the fort.

She was very aware of Trace watching her, but maybe he was just thinking about what she’d said outside, wondering if she would leave the colony. He’d miss her, she knew, but he’d move on. Then she would mourn him as she had John.

Mary stood leaning on the dark wood of the counter and peering at the jars on the shelves behind it. Kit joined her.

“I do wish they had fabric, Kit,” the girl said with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired of my dresses.”

“You wouldn’t be able to buy as much fabric as you can candy,” Kit teased, pulling her coins out of her pockets. “But I imagine if you eat enough of the candy, you’ll be needing a new dress before long.” She patted her own belly and quickly pushed aside the idea of expanding to need a new dress herself.

The mercantile owner’s attention was drawn by noise outside, and he excused himself from the ladies to step to the doorway.

“What is it?” Trace asked, joining the older man.

“The regiment, looks like, from Brazoria.”

Kit hurried to the door behind Mary. “That’s Lieutenant Greer!” she cried as the man rode past, shoulders straight, head back, no less full of pride than he’d been when he rode out of Fort Dryden.

Trace pivoted, his own posture tense. “You know the man?”

“Yes, he was at Fort Dryden with us.”

Trace’s face darkened and his mouth thinned.

Oh, dear. Kit had never seen that expression on his face before, but she understood it instantly. “Trace, no.” She placed her hand on his arm, which had tensed with the urge to fight.

“He left you there.”

“Trace!”

But he was out the door and in the street, stopping before the lieutenant’s horse. The other man reined in and looked down his nose at Trace. “May I help you, sir?”

“Do you know those women?” Trace’s voice carried up and down the road. Soon the mercantile owner wasn’t the only man standing in his doorway.

Kit wrapped her arms around herself, her mind racing for a plan to divert Trace, who appeared in no mood to be diverted. He no longer looked at her.

The lieutenant frowned at Trace, but turned in the direction he had indicated. His face relaxed when he saw Mary and Kit, and he dismounted quickly. “Mrs. Barclay! Miss Barclay! What a delight! I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“I would imagine not, since you abandoned them at the fort.” Trace mounted the porch behind the smaller man, blocking the steps.

The lieutenant pivoted to face Trace and looked up at the bigger man. “I never did.”

“When I came upon them, they were three women, starving, fending for themselves, afraid to leave the fort. What is it that you consider abandonment?”

“I left two soldiers and a horse with them.”

“They died,” Kit murmured.

The lieutenant stepped back so he could see both Kit and Trace at once. His lips turned down in sympathy. “And your son?”

“He died, as well.” For the first time, Kit’s voice didn’t shake as she spoke the words.

“Oh, Mrs. Barclay. I am so sorry.” The lieutenant placed a placating hand on her arm.

She believed he was, truly. “There’s nothing to be done now,” she said, her attention on Trace, pleading silently with him to let the matter drop.

“I apologize, Kit, but I beg to differ.” Trace drove his fist into the lieutenant’s jaw.

***

San Felipe was civilized enough to have a proper jail, with bars, if not a bed. At least he had a chamber pot. Trace sat on the bare ground of the cell, his hands draped over his bent knees, running his tongue over his teeth. None were loose, thank heaven, but he’d taken a pounding from the other soldiers in the regiment. He could still hear Kit’s screams above their shouts.

He should never have let her see that.

Almanzo had already stopped by to let him know that he’d be standing trial for assaulting a soldier, and that he would have to wait until Mr. Austin returned to hear the case. Because he wasn’t a citizen of the colony, he’d be kept in jail until Mr. Austin consented to release him to Almanzo’s custody. Almanzo had been highly amused that the tables were turned and that he was getting Trace out of trouble this time. Trace failed to see the humor.

The clank of keys to the outer door of the wooden building was accompanied by an imperious swish of skirts. He knew that sound, and looked up through swollen eyes to see Kit stride through the door, a basket over her arm.

He tried to get to his feet but pain shot through him, stealing his breath. The key grated in the lock and she was against him, shoring him up, ordering the young soldier who’d accompanied her to fetch a chair.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he managed. “People will talk.”

“I’m repaying a kindness to a man who risked his life to save mine and that of my family,” she said briskly, as if she’d already considered it.

He was torn between wanting her to keep her distance and knowing he couldn’t resist her touch. He ached to feel her fingers on his skin. She coursed one hand down his side. He flinched so abruptly, his vision blurred as pain shot through him.

In the next moment her arms were around him and he couldn’t even react because he was focusing on not vomiting.

“Your ribs?”

His knees hit the dirt floor and he managed a nod as he drew in a breath. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt as he dropped back against the wall. She gasped and sat on her heels, moving her hand from the center of his chest to rest on his stomach. He looked down to see what upset her. His stomach was black and blue with bruises. No wonder every breath hurt.

“How many times did they kick you?” she murmured, her fingers fluttering over his skin.

“Don’t know.” The pain subsided under the gentleness of her hands. “Kit, I—you can’t do this. There’s probably a doctor around.”

“Not one I’d trust,” she muttered.

Her breath feathered over his stomach and his body reacted, unbelievably, despite the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the rancid scent of the room and not the scent of her hair. This was not the time or place to become aroused.

“Can you make it home?”

“I can’t leave.”

“Yes you can. Lieutenant Greer dropped the charges, considering the circumstances.”

He forced his aching swollen eyes open. “You went to him?”

She didn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on his bruised chest. “It’s not right that you’re here.”

He grunted his assent.

“That doesn’t mean I think you were right.”

He tightened his jaw at her imperious tone. “You could have died out there.”

“You already knew it was my choice.”

“I know it wasn’t. You know how I know that? You would never risk Agnes and Mary like that. When they insisted they stay with you, you would have put aside what you wanted and gone, just to keep them safe. I know that about you.”

“That’s not the person I was then, Trace. I was wild with grief.”

“You don’t pull that far inside yourself.” He watched her reaction, but she didn’t look at him. “I still say, no kind of man would have walked away from three women out there.”

“You’re not mad at Lieutenant Greer.” She touched a wet cloth to the corner of his mouth.

“No.” He held her gaze. “I’m not mad at him.”

“Let it go. You can’t blame John either. ’Whither thou goest,’ remember? He’s gone. There’s nothing to be done now. Please, Trace, let me take you home.”

***

Agnes was upset when Kit and Trace arrived at Mr. Tarleton’s cabin, Trace leaning heavily on Almanzo’s shoulders. Kit ignored Agnes’s disapproving posture and made a bed for Trace in the living area by the fire. Agnes followed her as Kit helped him onto it. The older woman cast glances at Almanzo. Kit was sure the moment the man left, she was in for a tirade.

Trace hadn’t been able to ride in the carriage Almanzo had brought, because hadn’t been able to bend enough to get into it. So they’d walked, slowly, Trace between Kit and Almanzo.

“Do you need anything else?” Almanzo asked softly. “I need to see to the animals.”

Kit didn’t take her eyes from Trace. “I can manage.”

Their host inclined his head at Agnes and slipped out.

Kit’s legs quivered with exhaustion but she didn’t allow herself to sit beside Trace, not yet. She drew her poultice and soft cloths from her basket and hovered over him.

“Can you get your shirt off on your own?”

He tried to ease one sleeve down, winced and stopped.

“I’ll get it.” She sat beside him, causing a sharp intake of breath from Agnes.

“Katherine, this is hardly proper behavior. You went to the jail for him on your own, and now you’re caring for his injuries. What will people think? We live with good, God-fearing people here and you act as brazen as a—”

Kit glanced up, daring the woman to complete that sentence. She turned her attention back to Trace, blocking out her mother-in-law’s disapproval and easing the fabric down both arms at the same time. She wanted so badly to press a kiss to his broad shoulder, and barely resisted the impulse. The sight of him in so much pain hurt her. She eased her touch over his bruised stomach. “Your ribs. I need to wrap them.”

He nodded. She dipped her fingers in the poultice—foul smelling stuff—and smoothed it over his skin.

“Katherine, you need to let Mr. Tarleton do that, or a doctor. You shouldn’t be touching him. He’s an unmarried man.”

Kit tossed her head in her mother-in-law’s direction. “Do you want to do it?”

Agnes drew up straight. “That wouldn’t be proper either.”

“Mother. I’m doing this. Please, just take Mary into the other room if it bothers you so much.” She turned her attention back to Trace, feeling his muscles tighten as her touch skimmed over his broken ribs.

“And leave the two of you alone? That wouldn’t be right.” She huffed. “He shouldn’t have started that fight.”

“He was standing up for us.”

“What is that stuff made of?” Trace muttered, wrinkling his nose at the poultice.

“You don’t want to know.” She fought her own repulsion at the smell, which made her stomach roil. “This is bad, Trace.”

“Not too bad.”

“You’re too familiar with him, calling him Trace, touching him, letting him touch you. You’re a widow, but that doesn’t mean you can be free with any man who comes along. I think it’s time we go back to New Orleans.”

That was the decision Kit had expected Agnes to reach, but she didn’t have the patience to deal with it now. She didn’t have the resources to cope with the weight the thought of leaving Trace behind put on her heart. She let her temper loose. “Mother! Enough! We can talk about this later if you insist, but now I need to take care of him.”

Agnes set her shoulders and motioned to her daughter. The two stormed out.

“Sorry,” he said through his swollen lips.

“Hush.” She unwound the linen, pressed one end lightly to the poultice and began winding it around his chest, under the arms he raised with a protesting groan. “It’s going to need to be tight so you don’t move and hurt yourself more.”

“I’d rather hurt than smell this stuff.”

“You’ll do both. Maybe now you wish they’d broken your nose too.”

“Don’t wish that,” he muttered, touching his nose lightly. “Careful.”

“Graciela is bringing some willow bark. That should help.”

Kit could use a sip herself. She finished wrapping his ribs and eased him back so she could press a cold compress over his swollen eyes. He sighed in relief. When Graciela came in with the willow bark tea, Kit thrust the poultice at her. “Take this as far away as you can, please. I don’t think I can bear it any longer.”

The room was suddenly very hot. Kit shot to her feet and bolted for the door, where she lost her dinner just outside.

Agnes was beside her in a moment. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you got sick as well,” she murmured, touching Kit’s back.

But Kit didn’t believe the influenza had followed her to San Felipe. She was very afraid she’d contracted something else altogether.

Chapter Eleven

“You’re cheerful,” Trace said, finally making it to his feet two days later. He stood in the doorway, watching Kit laughing in the yard as she worked with Graciela. He loved hearing her laugh, and she was doing more of it these days.

She stopped and leaned on her broom. “I’m finally warm.” She lifted an arm to the blue sky and the trees swaying in the breeze, their gentle green buds having sprouted in just the past two days. “Spring is coming.” She approached him, more shyly than she had in the past. “The swelling’s gone down?” She stroked a gentle finger over his eyebrow.

“Yeah, I can mostly see now.” He smiled down at her, and his mouth didn’t hurt as much, where his lip had split.

“And your breathing?” Her hand hovered above his ribs.

His skin twitched as if she’d touched him. He missed the feel of her hands, since she’d gotten very comfortable touching him the past few days as she applied more medication and examined his wounds. Every time, he’d wanted her. “Could be better.”

She gave him an unreadable look.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

Surprise dimmed her expression and tightened her lips. “What do you mean?”

“Your stomach. The smell of the poultice.”

“Oh, that.” She waved his concern away. “The smell just hit me wrong.”

He watched her for a moment, wondering why her words raised questions in his mind. “I need to stretch my legs.” He nodded toward the outhouse.

“All right.” She stepped back, watching him as though she expected him to tumble over at any minute. She hadn’t been so wary since he’d first come to the fort. What was going on?

When he re-emerged, she still had that strange assessing look in her eyes. And she was smiling. She looked so carefree and young, he found himself grinning back.

“Now there’s a man in love if I ever saw him,” Almanzo said, coming up behind him. “Not that I blame you.”

Trace considered denying it, but changed his mind. Why should he? He wasn’t good at hiding his feelings. Yes, it was too soon after the loss of her husband, and his wife. Yes, she needed a plan and he neither had one nor wanted one. But he could admit the truth to his friend. “I didn’t think it could happen.”

“She’s incredible,” Almanzo said. “As strong and fair-minded as she is beautiful.”

Trace slanted a look at his friend. “Should I be laying claim?”

“She won’t even look in my direction. I wouldn’t think of stepping in. Besides, have you not already laid claim?”

Trace flushed and turned back to watch Kit. “Not sure what you mean.”

“I came back to the barn the other night and heard something. I’m certain it wasn’t Agnes or Mary, especially after seeing the way Kit looked at you the next day.”

Trace looked down at his hands, searching for an explanation and coming up empty. “It’s not—I can’t feel like it’s a sin.”

“I’m not passing judgment, God knows. Others will, though.”

“I know.” And Trace couldn’t offer a life for her.

“What about the sister?” Almanzo asked. “Do you think she’d settle into this life?”

“Sister-in-law.” Trace turned to face Almanzo. “She’s a child.”

“Sixteen. Plenty old enough to marry. She’s a pretty girl, and seems easily entertained.”

Trace wondered how long that would last. “She grew up in New Orleans. This will be an adjustment.”

“She’s young enough to get used to it, I imagine. She seems malleable enough.”

Trace lifted his eyebrows. “If you like that.”

“I do. Kit’s a touch too in-charge for me.”

“I like a woman who knows her own mind.”

Almanzo nodded. “Angelina was that too.”

“She was.” What did that mean? That he shouldn’t want someone so similar? But beyond that inner strength, he didn’t see similarities. Beautiful, yes. Strong, yes. Certain, yes. But Angelina was willing to float through life, wasn’t driven to know where she was going. Angelina had lost her will to live after losing their child. Kit had pushed on, heartbroken as she was, and looked out for her family. “So are you going to court Mary?”

“I want to place my claim before the other single men around here get the same idea. I saw them looking at her at the church, so it won’t be long. Are you going to court Kit?”

“Agnes is more likely to accept your suit than mine. Her son hasn’t been in the ground a year, she’s not going to be happy about another man taking his place. And she’s accustomed to Kit taking care of things now.”

“So you’re going to sit back and wait until a year has passed?”

Kit looked up from her chore and sent Trace a sunny smile that went straight to his gut. He didn’t want to go any longer without her than he had to, even if it meant he had to start thinking about the future. “No. I’m not going to do that.”

***

After supper, Trace rose and invited Kit to walk with him to the river. Agnes grumbled her disapproval. Kit cast her an anxious glance, but rose for her wrap anyway.

“You’ve been keeping your distance,” he murmured as they stepped off the porch. “Are you still angry with me?”

She snapped her head toward him. “I’m not angry.”

“So? What’s kept you away? Tired of mending me?”

She allowed a small smile. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s too bad.” He moved closer and took her arm, needing to touch her, to feel her warmth. “I miss your hands on me.”

She dipped her head, her lips curved. “Even when I’m slathering nasty smelling poultice?”

He turned, caught her hand and smiled. “Especially then.”

“We’re in town now, Trace.” Her tone was somber as she withdrew her hand. “We can’t be as free as we have been. We shouldn’t even be walking about unchaperoned.”

Trace pinched his nose in frustration. After all they’d endured, he couldn’t walk alone with her? “Shall I go get Mary?”

She glanced back at the cabin and pulled her wrap more snugly around her. “No.”

“Agnes, then?”

Her gaze snapped to his and she realized he was teasing her. She gave him a soft smile. “No.”

“So we can continue walking?”

She tightened her lips. “Perhaps not too far.”

Frustration boiled inside him. Was this what town life would do to her? Button her up like Agnes? Where was the adventurous woman he had fallen in love with? Perhaps this was his way out. If she changed so much, he could walk away. He didn’t need to plan, didn’t need to settle.

Didn’t need to go back to New Orleans.

But he looked at the woman walking beside him, the woman who’d lost a husband and a child, the woman who’d kept her family alive and safe, who brought him back to life. The woman who’d been his lover and partner as they crossed the coastal plains. No. He wouldn’t walk away. He just needed to bring that woman out again.

Then he’d learn if she loved him too.

He released her and began walking the road toward the river. She fell into step beside him, though he could sense she wanted to look back at the cabin again. He needed to distract her from her worries about propriety. “Almanzo is thinking of courting Mary.”

She whirled toward him, eyes wide. “How do you know this?”

“He asked me if I thought she would consider it. I pointed out she’s only a child.”

“I was only a bit older when I married John. But Mary, living here.” She motioned to the land and trees surrounding them. “She’s hardly a pioneer woman.”

“She could be an important woman. Almanzo is becoming an important man, and his wife would have power in the community.”

“Do you think that will sway her in his favor?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Mary wants what we all want. To be safe, to be loved. Do you think Almanzo can love her?”

“I think he can grow to. Is that good enough?”

“Was it good enough for you?”

He stopped walking, turned her to him and stroked his thumb down her cheek. “No. Kit.”

Kit’s heart skipped as Trace looked into her eyes, his own intense, as if he wanted her to understand something, wanted to tell her something but couldn’t make himself say it. Oh, no. Oh, dear. He was leaving, moving on to another adventure, and he couldn’t make himself say the words. He couldn’t say goodbye.

And she couldn’t hear it, not tonight. Her stomach bunched in real fear that he’d leave and she’d be broken all over again. Coward that she was, she backed away. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so long. You’re still recovering.”

“You don’t need to pamper me. I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”

He’d need to, when he left.

She tucked her hands inside her wrap and stepped back. “It’s colder out here than I thought. We should go back.”

A frown creased his forehead, tugged the corners of his mouth down. “All right.”

The silence was tense on their walk back. Kit hated the knots in her stomach, and she especially hated feeling them with Trace, the person she trusted above all.

She swept into the cabin ahead of him, but stopped short to see her family and Almanzo vibrating with excitement as they gathered wraps and coats. Kit frowned. It was late in the evening to go into town.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

Almanzo grinned at her. “Mr. Austin is back from the States. Everyone is gathering in the town square to welcome him home.”

***

Kit slipped her hand into the crook of Trace’s arm as they approached the town square. She hadn’t expected so many people to turn out, considering dusk had fallen and so many lived so far from town. How had they known the empresario was here?

The gathering in town was a festive affair, with people laughing and visiting as they milled in front of Austin’s log cabin. Kit strained up on her toes to get a glimpse of the man himself. He was younger than she expected, considering his responsibility, but dark circles shadowed his eyes and his brown curls were tousled from travel, and maybe frustration from seeing all these people waiting for him.

Sympathy tugged at her. She had enough trouble being responsible for her family. What weight must he carry? She eased closer to Trace. Perhaps it was best they wait a bit before talking to Mr. Austin, as long as the man remained in the colony for a while.

Mary bounded over to Kit. “He’s brought wagons of supplies. I’ve heard there’s fabric. Perhaps we can all make new dresses.”

The girl deserved a new dress after what she’d endured. Besides, the dresses they owned were shamefully worn. “We’ll get to the mercantile first thing in the morning and see what they have.”

“Can we?” Mary gave a little bounce of excitement, squeezed Kit’s hand, then disappeared into the crowd.

“I can probably get you a meeting with him this week, but no sooner,” Almanzo said from beside Trace. “Those men there have politics to discuss and that’s his focus.”

Kit tightened her fingers on Trace’s arm, but she fought to hide her disappointment. She was ready to know what her future would hold. She felt as if she was holding her breath in anticipation of what came next.

“Do you want to go home?” Trace asked.

Her heart lurched. That was exactly what she wanted, to go home. Her home. Her own home. Even the fort had felt more like a home than this. She nodded and turned away, pulling her hand free, intending to head back alone.

She only got a few steps before he caught her arm. “Where are you going?”

“Back to Almanzo’s.”

“Not by yourself. Not with all these strangers in town.”

There was no one but strangers in this town, although she didn’t say so.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” She broke away and hurried down the road, longing to be alone.

***

Mary wasn’t the only one who intended to get to the mercantile early for the choicest of the supplies Mr. Austin had brought back. Several settlers gathered in front of the small store after breakfast. In fact, some looked as though they had spent the night on the steps. The store had seemed well supplied before, so Kit wondered how badly off the settlers were, or if they were like Mary and just craved something new.

To be honest, she was more than a little excited to see for herself. She hadn’t bought anything new since leaving Louisiana, though it looked like none of them would get anything, with this crowd. Mr. Padalecki, the store owner, looked a bit wary as he opened the mercantile doors, but despite the buzz of excitement among the crowd, the people entered calmly. Kit had to hold Mary back, but only until an older gentleman gestured the three women in ahead of him.

The three aisles of the mercantile were crowded. Most of the men gathered near the new farming supplies and seeds while the women congregated by the bolts of fabric. Mrs. Padalecki held up her hands for peace as women passed the bolts from hand to hand.

“Only two lengths of fabric per customer!” Mrs. Padalecki called over the twittering of the customers. “Only two lengths!”

“Two lengths per customer!” Mary turned to Kit, eyes wide. “Does that mean we have to all get the same fabric?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kit saw Trace come through the door and rose up on her toes to watch his progress. “Get what you like.”

“But then we’ll all have the same dress.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kit held onto her patience with the smallest of threads. Trace had moved down the food aisle, touching his hat in her direction before moving out again. “Everyone else will be in the same situation. We can use different patterns and different notions. Don’t fret. Be happy Mr. Austin brought something back.”

Mary was ecstatic the rest of the day and made arrangements to turn the living area into a sewing room. Each woman had gotten a length of calico and muslin, as well as buttons and thread. Mary intended to get straight to work sewing.

“Perhaps you should discuss this with Mr. Tarleton before taking over his house,” Kit advised gently. “He’s already been more than generous giving up his bed. Why don’t we make the bedroom our sewing room?”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “The light is terrible in there. I don’t know why he didn’t put more windows in.”

Because windows were expensive. But Kit didn’t say it. “It’s warm enough during the day that we can sit outside to sew.”

“And ruin our beautiful fabric before we even wear it? Mr. Tarleton will understand.”

“Understand what?” Trace asked, walking in from the barn.

“That we have commandeered his house,” Kit replied. She and Trace hadn’t spoken since the walk home last night.

Trace looked from her to Mary and back. “He’ll understand.”

Kit stared, trying to make sure she understood his meaning. He nodded and inclined his head toward Mary as Mr. Tarleton himself walked in. Kit saw his gaze go to Mary, saw the small smile play on his lips, and lifted her eyebrows at Trace, who grinned. Heavens, it was lovely to see him smile. She smiled back.

“I have good news,” Almanzo said over dinner. “I was able to get you a meeting with Mr. Austin tomorrow.”

“Yes?” Kit’s gaze met Trace’s before she looked down the table at Almanzo.

“Are you ready?” Almanzo teased.

Trace’s expression sobered as he turned back to Kit, head cocked in question.

“Of course,” she said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Too bad you won’t have one of your new dresses ready,” Mary said, shoulders drooping in disappointment.

Agnes heaved a sigh. “Mary, get the muslin.”

“Mother, no.” Kit stepped aside as Mary ducked past her into the bedroom where they’d stored their new treasures. She couldn’t allow Agnes and Mary to put themselves under the pressure of creating a new garment in that short a time.

“Yes.” Agnes’s tone was firm as she helped Graciela clear the table. “You will not be ashamed in front of this man. I’m sure we can pay Mr. Tarleton for the lamp oil we’ll use. Let’s get to work.”

***

Kit was bleary eyed in the morning in any event. She’d been unable to sleep as her mind wheeled from one worry to another. What would Mr. Austin tell her? Did she have a future here or did she need to return home? Would Trace stay or go?

Why was she fretting over something she couldn’t answer until she met with Mr. Austin?

She swung her legs out of bed and caught her breath. Her dress hung on the back of the door, a beautiful pale green, with a V-neck, the fabric edging it pleated in three narrow rows, the pleats framing the buttons down the front of the bodice. The sleeves were straight, and the cuffs at the wrist had the same pleats. The detail was something that took extra time, but it made the dress so beautiful, especially since there had been no lace on hand, or pretty buttons. Instead, plain bone buttons ran down to the waist, and a full skirt belled beneath it.

“I wanted to do the pleats at the bottom, too,” Mary said from her bed. “But we didn’t have time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned.” She turned to her sister-in-law. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mary. Help me get dressed.”

***

Stephen Austin wasn’t what Kit expected. His cabin, the room where he saw people, was only a bit bigger than Almanzo’s living space. The walls lined with books—law books, Kit supposed. Her stomach fluttered a bit. She wished Trace would take her hand. Of course that would not be proper behavior. Still, without his reassuring touch, she felt adrift here.

Mr. Austin smiled and leaned forward as Almanzo escorted them into the room. A smile quivered on her lips as Almanzo stepped forward to make the introductions.

“Mr. Austin, this is Mr. George Watson the Third and Mrs. Katherine Barclay.”

For a moment, Kit didn’t know what Almanzo was talking about. Who was George? She hadn’t even known Trace’s first name! As the third in line with the same given name, he would have needed a nickname. She hadn’t thought to ask his given name. She took a step back and he glanced over, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Mrs. Barclay?”

Mr. Austin rose from his desk, brows lowered, drawing her attention from Trace. Had he asked her something?

“Sir?”

“You’re Mrs. Barclay.”

“Yes, sir. My husband was killed near the Louisiana border.”

“The name sounds familiar to me,” the man muttered. He crossed the room to a large book on a table by the wall.

Kit turned to follow his progression, and she watched as he opened the book and ran a finger down the page. “My husband had a grant with you. We never were able to claim it. I’ve only arrived in town a week ago and I wanted to ask about it.”

Mr. Austin lifted his gaze from the book, brow furrowed in confusion. “You must be mistaken. Your husband has claimed it. John Barclay has lived on the land since August.”

Chapter Twelve

The strength left Kit’s legs. As she staggered, Trace caught her by her shoulders and guided her to a chair. He kept his hands on her, reassuring her, but she couldn’t take comfort in the gesture. Her mind whirled with Mr. Austin’s revelation. John? Alive? Could he be?

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “Someone else claiming to be John. He never would have left us alone all that time. And we’ve been here. Why haven’t we seen him?”

“The claim is further west, about two hours away,” Mr. Austin explained. “He doesn’t get to town much.”

“He wouldn’t have left us on our own for so long,” Kit insisted. He wouldn’t have abandoned her, his mother, sister and his son to fend for themselves in hostile territory. “There’s a mistake.” Nausea roiled, and she fought the urge to drop to her knees and empty her stomach on Stephen Austin’s shoes.

“Can you tell us where the claim is?” Trace asked. “I’m certain this man must be an imposter.”

Kit, preoccupied by her own thoughts, barely registered his question. “Can you tell me what he looks like? John is blond and stocky and strong.” Panic rolled through her at the possibility that he was still alive, at what that meant for her and her family, for her and Trace.

Mr. Austin shook his head regretfully. “I don’t remember. There are so many, and I don’t see him, since he lives so far out.”

“If he’s an imposter, then what?” Almanzo asked Mr. Austin, but Kit didn’t care what happened to the man claiming to be John. She just had to know if it was John.

She clutched Trace’s hand and craned her neck to look up at him. “I must see if it’s him.”

“I know.”

“We need to go now.” She shifted her attention to Almanzo. “May we borrow your buggy?”

***

Kit hadn’t wanted to stop by the cabin on the way to the land grant, preferring not to explain to Agnes and Mary where she and Trace were going in such a hurry. But she didn’t want to ride over the dusty trails in her fine new dress and Trace needed to hitch up the horses in any case.

She hurried past the women as they shelled beans, desperate for the privacy of the bedroom. She changed quickly into an old calico and bolted out the door to face the three curious women. “We’re going to look at the land grant,” she said with as much forced cheeriness as she could muster. “We’ll be back late. Don’t wait for us.”

Graciela rose. “I’ll make you something to eat to take along.”

Kit almost protested, not trusting herself to hide her emotions in front of Agnes and Kit, but the one biscuit she’d had that morning wouldn’t hold her. She nodded, even though Trace had pulled up in front of the house with the buggy.

“I don’t see what the hurry is,” Agnes said, her attention on the beans she was shelling.

“Another family may be interested and we need to make a claim.”

“I thought we would go back home,” Agnes said. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

Graciela handed her the basket and Kit eased toward the door. “I’m not sure what I want.” She hurried out to join Trace at the buggy, avoiding further questions.

He helped her up silently. He’d been quiet since they left Mr. Austin’s cabin, letting her reason everything out, she knew. Only there were no easy answers, no matter how much she thought about it. She was in love with Trace. But she loved John, and if he was alive…

She didn’t want to look at Trace as he drove the wagon. Right now her temptation was to tell him to turn the wagon around and head for Louisiana, not to go see if John was alive. Just pretend she didn’t know.

But she couldn’t live with the possibility. She had to find out.

Her choice was going to affect Trace, too, but she couldn’t think about that now. The question running through her mind was, why hadn’t John come for her?

Why had he let her son die?

She almost wished Trace wasn’t with her so she wouldn’t have the added tension of his presence, a subtle pressure. If this person they were heading out to see was John, how would she introduce him to Trace?

“Hello, John. It’s been a while. This is the man I met and fell in love with and made love to before I found out you were still alive.” Nausea rolled in her stomach. She’d committed adultery, the worst kind of betrayal. No matter what, she should have remained faithful to her husband’s memory longer.

“My head hurts.”

Her sudden words made him jolt in surprise. The reins fell over the horses’ rumps, making them shy and veer. She slapped a hand to her hat as she swayed.

He drew on the reins to slow the team. “Do you want to wait, to have more time to figure this out?”

“And then discover it’s an imposter after all? No. I need to know.”

He sighed, but a small grin played at the corners of his lips. “I knew you’d say that.”

Oh, she loved this man. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders and she adjusted to face him. “Know me that well, do you?”

He shifted the reins to one hand, covering hers with his free one. “I know you’re spinning this around in your head until you’re making yourself sick. It’s not good for you.”

“Trace, what am I going to tell him?”

“I’m wondering what he’s going to tell you. Why was he here and not back at the fort?”

“It could be someone else.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Wouldn’t it make things simpler?”

“But you don’t really hope that. You want it to be him.”

Did she? Suddenly the tips of her shoes were more fascinating than meeting Trace’s probing gaze. “He was my husband. I don’t wish him dead to make my life simpler.”

“He’s still your husband.”

“What would you do if you found out Angelina was still alive?”

He drew in a hard breath and released her hand, as if he couldn’t bear to touch her and talk of Angelina. “I watched her die, Katherine. I held her as she slipped away from me.”

His voice was so cold, not the voice of the man she loved. But how could he be anything but hurt? She shouldn’t have asked him to accompany her. Almanzo could have just as easily, and the journey would have been less painful for him. But selfishly, she’d wanted Trace with her, wanted the strength and support he’d given her the past few months.

She wanted to reach for him now but wondered if he’d allow it. She was riding to her husband’s home while craving contact with another man.

“I’m sorry.”

He swept a hand down his face. “No. No, I am. I just don’t know…what are we supposed to do here, Kit?”

She shook her head, digging her fingers into her scalp. “I don’t know. I…can’t think, not until I know for sure.”

“How can you not think about it?”

“Because if he’s alive, I betrayed him. I betrayed him with you, again and again.”

A muscle in Trace’s jaw jumped. “If anything, he betrayed you.”

“I can’t think about that either. Or that if he’d come back, Daniel might not have died.”

“Kit.”

“How can I not think about that? Could you?” She dropped her hands into her lap. “My head’s just spinning around and around. But there’s nothing I can do. Not now. Not until I know.”

***

The trip was longer than Mr. Austin had told them. Trace’s shoulders ached with tension, more from what they’d find on the end of this journey than guiding the horses. If John Barclay was still alive, Kit would go back to him. It wouldn’t matter that she loved Trace. She loved her husband more. Trace could feel her turmoil across the seat.

He glanced at the sketchy map Mr. Austin had drawn and guided the horses to the right, barely able to find the overgrown trail. If John lived here, he didn’t leave often.

As they moved forward, Kit drew tighter into herself and moved further from him. Then the homestead came in sight, a half-built cabin beside a large tent.

A black man walked out of the cabin. Kit blew out a relieved laugh. “Not John. Thank God. Not John.”

The man wiped his hands on a bandana and approached the wagon as Trace reined in. “Can I help you?”

“We’re wondering if we’re at the right place.” Trace reached down to set the brake. “Mr. Austin sent us here to find John Barclay.”

“But perhaps he was mistaken,” Kit said quickly.

“Not mistaken,” the man said in a slow Louisiana drawl. “Mr. Barclay’s here.” He motioned with the bandana toward the cabin.

Kit made a choked sound. Trace turned to see her gaze riveted on the cabin.

“He’s here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m—” She spread one hand over her chest, her other hand tight on the side rail. “I’m Katherine Barclay. I’m his wife.”

The man’s forehead smoothed. He took another step forward, offering his hand. “So pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Aaron. You come on in, now. You’ll be a sight for sore eyes.”

Trace waited for more of an explanation, but Kit didn’t. She placed her hand in the stranger’s and allowed him to assist her down from the wagon. Trace jumped down and walked to the horse’s head.

Kit looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you wait out here?”

Of course. She didn’t want to reunite with her husband with her lover looking on. He gripped the bridle and nodded. “I’ll be here.” He hoped to hell his voice sounded supportive, that the anger and betrayal he felt didn’t make their presence known. She didn’t need that now, when her emotions were confused enough.

***

Kit took a deep breath at the shine of pain in Trace’s eyes, and then she followed Aaron into the cabin.

John, her beloved John, lay on a cot against the wall in the dim room, covered in linen, a deerskin draped over his lower body. His head was wrapped in cotton batting and when he looked at her, alerted by her cry—part alarm and part joy—his eyes didn’t quite focus.

Those familiar blue eyes didn’t recognize her.

She choked out his name and dropped to the cot beside him. He shifted toward the wall, away from her, with a grunt of pain.

“John?” She reached out with a shaking hand to stroke the edge of the batting. “It’s me, Kit.”

He flinched from her touch and his questioning gaze flicked to Aaron.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kit asked, her voice high as she fisted her hand in her lap. “He doesn’t know me?”

“Mrs. Barclay, he was shot in the head.”

“Shot in the—?” She dropped back onto her heels, muscles lax in shock. “How is he alive?”

Aaron smiled down at her grimly. “I would think his wife would know better than most. Never met a harder headed man.”

“You were with him when he was hurt?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the head injury? Is that the extent of it?”

“No, ma’am, he was also shot in the lower leg. Shattered the bone. They had to take it below the knee.”

She sucked in a hard breath, her hand hovering over the deerskin above his leg. Still she couldn’t breathe. He’d lost his leg? No wonder he hadn’t come for her. “His leg? And his head? So he doesn’t know me.”

Aaron frowned. “No, ma’am. He doesn’t remember much.”

“What do you mean, much?”

“Well, ma’am, he didn’t know his name when he came to. He didn’t know where he was, or how he got hurt.”

“He doesn’t remember me.” Or their son. Defeat weighted her shoulders. She had wanted to mourn their son with the man who had given her the child, who had shared that life with her. Now even that was taken from her. “How did you know to bring him here?”

“He had the deed with him when he was injured.”

“And you brought him out here on your own?”

“I was the only one left.”

The words made her dizzy. The only survivor, and he’d cared for her husband.

“I’m sorry. I—” She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, only just reaching the bare ground outside before her stomach heaved.

“Kit.”

Trace was at her side, sweeping her hair back from her face. She could sense the questions he had, but she couldn’t answer them, not yet.

“Could I get some water?” She needed some distance from him—because she wanted to turn into his chest and beg him to take her home, to take her back to a time when she didn’t know her husband was alive, when she was thinking of her future. A different future, not one in which she had to care for her crippled husband, a man who didn’t remember her.

Trace stroked his thumb over her cheek. She sensed him watching her, but she didn’t trust herself to meet his gaze. He pushed to his feet and she heard him walk away. He returned with the canteen and a cup filled with cool water. Rising, she discovered her legs were shaking. Still not looking at him, she accepted the drink. She had to start detaching herself from him. She needed to walk away from him and take her place at her husband’s side.

Another deep breath didn’t do enough to battle back her tears. How could something so joyous—finding her husband alive—cause so much pain?

“I need to…Trace, I need to—”

“You need to stay.” His voice was rough.

She made the mistake of looking at him. Pain etched lines in his face and tears shone in his eyes. Her throat constricted and she had to drop her gaze. She needed to get away, needed to send him away, but her heart was breaking. This man knew her, understood her, loved her. But they hadn’t promised each other anything. She’d given him her body but they’d never talked about a future. They’d never spoken of marriage. Not enough time had passed since Angelina’s death. He wasn’t ready to move forward, and thank the Lord for that. Because Kit had just been yanked back into the past.

She moved to the other side of the door. “Would you—could you go get Agnes and Mary and bring them here?”

He eased back onto his heels and folded his hands in front of him. “You want me to go tell Agnes her son is alive?”

Kit folded her arms. Of course he was right. She needed to do it. But she couldn’t bear the thought of riding in the wagon with him back to the colony. And she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her husband, not so soon after she’d found him.

She looked through the door, to her husband lying helpless on the bed.

“You’re right. I just—can you give me a few more minutes before we go back? I need—just a little more time.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait.”

Her nose and eyes burning with tears, she pivoted and went back into the cabin.

***

If Trace thought the ride out had been painful, the ride back to town was miserable. Kit didn’t talk, only sniffled now and again. She hadn’t introduced him to John, but he thought he understood. He’d glimpsed the man through the doorway, bedridden and in bad shape. Kit had cradled the man’s hand between hers until he fell asleep. Only then had she been willing to leave.

“He doesn’t know me,” she said at last, her voice barely audible above the rattle of the wagon wheels. “He looks at me and doesn’t know who I am. We were married six years. He doesn’t remember our son.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to reach past his pain to her own, but he had no idea how to comfort her, not without touching her, and she was once again another man’s wife.

“I could walk away.” She turned to him, her tone sharp. “I could walk away and he wouldn’t know.”

He didn’t know how to respond. What would she walk to? Him? Would he want that, knowing she had made that choice? Could she live with that? He knew her better than to think she could. “You would know.”

She turned away again. “I would know.”

***

“John’s alive?”

Agnes dropped heavily onto a chair at Almanzo’s table, her shoulders slumped, her face slack, looking older than Kit ever remembered seeing her. When was the last time she’d truly looked at John’s mother and seen the toll the events of this winter had taken on her? Kit crouched beside her mother-in-law and took the older woman’s hands in her own.

“He’s not well.” She had to prepare his family. She wished she had been more prepared. Her emotions might not be in such a jumble now. “He didn’t recognize me. Aaron, the man who’s been caring for him, says he doesn’t know him from day to day. He’s confined to the bed, and one of his legs—” She’d gotten through all of that without choking up, but now her throat squeezed. “They took it below the knee.”

Behind Kit, Mary gave a cry of distress.

“But he’s alive.” Kit forced strength into her voice, as if it would buoy the other two. “He’s alive, and we had given up hope that could be. We’ll have much to do—the living conditions are not what we had at the fort. But we’ll have supplies and we’ll have each other.”

Tears blurred her eyes. Once again she’d be the strong one. She wouldn’t have Trace to turn to, to lean on, to discuss matters with. He’d even left her to tell the family on her own. What she wouldn’t give for his support right now. But she could hardly ask for it as she prepared to rejoin her husband.

She had to seize the joy of finding her husband alive, no matter how hard it was going to be to care for him. No matter how hard it was going to be to walk away from Trace.

“So.” She pushed to her feet. “Let’s get our things packed and get out there, shall we? Almanzo will take us, if we can leave within the hour.”

“Not Trace?” Mary asked, tears making her voice quaver.

Kit didn’t look at her sister-in-law. “It’s too much to ask him to go back.” Too much to ask her to say goodbye at the threshold of her husband’s home.

Almanzo stepped in the back door, his hat in his hands. “Trace told me the good news,” he said, his tone solemn. “He also told me your husband doesn’t have much in the way of amenities. I’ll be happy to give you what I can to make you ladies comfortable.” His attention was on Mary. “What can I do?”

“I’ll make a list, if you don’t mind, and you can collect some supplies from the mercantile for us.” Kit was unwilling to be beholden to him for anything more. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to get back into town. I didn’t see a conveyance.” She looked past him to see Trace standing behind him. Her heart gave a painful thump against her ribs. “Did you see one?” she asked him, needing to stay businesslike, no matter how it hurt.

Trace shook his head, his lips in a thin line. “I’ll take the list.”

She nodded and turned her attention to the paper and pencil Graciela brought her.

The next half hour was a flurry of preparation. In addition to driving them, Almanzo loaded two beds on the wagon, as well as some of Graciela’s homemade soaps and cleansers, some linens and dishes and cookware. Kit hated that her embarrassment over accepting so much turned to resentment toward John. She should have had these things, as a married lady. She should have had a house and household items instead of depending on the generosity of a man she’d only known a week. She reassured herself by remembering that Almanzo was considering courting Mary, and was likely being extra-generous for that reason.

She slipped into the bedroom to pack her own meager belongings, including the beautiful dress she’d worn only this morning and would likely not have a chance to wear again. She’d allowed herself to imagine it might become her wedding dress. Sorrow swelled in her chest, but even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t cry. She was too tense, her mind tumbling from one thought to another. Her husband was alive. She was in love with another man. Her husband was an invalid, and once again they’d be cut off from civilization. Until arriving at the colony, she hadn’t realized how much she missed people.

But the thought that kept rolling through her mind, tormenting her, was that she could never see Trace again. She couldn’t bear to see him and remember how they were together, how he knew her, how he might love her. All of that had to remain locked away in her memory.

Movement outside the window caught her attention and she edged over to see Trace loading boxes into the back of the wagon, his face grim. Her heart clenched. Had he become as attached to her as she was to him? Would he remain in San Felipe now that she was no longer here to anchor him, or move on?

She folded the chemise he’d bought from Almanzo into her satchel. He was alone by the wagons. She needed to say goodbye to him privately. He deserved it. She deserved it.

She slipped out of the bedroom to the porch, avoiding Agnes and Mary, who she’d heard working in the kitchen. Perhaps Graciela would send them with dinner. That would be nice, since Kit would have to start scraping meals together tomorrow.

Trace hefted another box into the back of the wagon. He dusted his hands as she approached.

“You got more than what was on my list.” She forced cheeriness into her tone as she looked into the back of the wagon. Pots and other household paraphernalia were in the boxes, as well as sacks of sugar, flour, salt pork and other staples.

“You won’t have much out there.” He kept his attention on the boxes. “I didn’t get oats, though. Figured you’d had enough of those.”

“I got very good at making them, though.” She placed her hand on his arm, needing him to look at her. “Trace.”

He drew away and she felt the loss like a punch to the stomach.

“I’m trying to say goodbye.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “You know I wish you well.”

“I want to leave with more than that.”

He swung on her then. “What do you want, Kit? A last kiss as I send you to your husband?”

She stepped back. “You can’t be angry with me about this.”

“At you? No. Angry?” He shook his head. “My own fault.” He gripped the back of the wagon. “I wish you every happiness, Kit. Know that I do.”

He had already moved away from her, already closed her out of his heart. Still, she had to know. “What will you do?”

He blew a breath through his nose. “Go.”

Though she knew she couldn’t see him again, the thought that she would never, ever lay eyes on him again, would never encounter him at the mercantile or at church, threatened to rip her heart out. “Back home?”

“Maybe. Maybe on to San Antonio.”

“Trace.”

He turned back to her, his eyes hooded. “Everything I want to say to you, I can’t, all right? You’re another man’s wife now. Another man’s…” He swallowed, then shook his head and shoved away from the wagon. “I think you’re all set here.”

“Trace. Please.” She wanted his arms around her one last time, wanted to breathe the scent of him, to take that memory with her back into her old life.

But he wouldn’t look at her again. Instead, he turned and walked away.

She drew in a hard breath and watched him until he disappeared into the barn.

Chapter Thirteen

Kit carried the chamber pot from the cabin. Exhaustion shook the muscles in her arms, and though she’d emptied her stomach moments before, her insides still roiled.

There was no denying it any longer.

She was pregnant with Trace’s child.

She emptied the pot in the latrine Aaron had dug, then set it down and sank to the ground beside it, lowering her head to her raised knees.

They’d been here, at this place she planned to make a home with her husband, for three weeks. During that time, John hadn’t recognized her from one day to the next. She’d cleaned him, fed him, and helped him move around the cabin. He was so thin, she could feel his bones as she wrapped her arm around him, as he leaned on her, not even attempting to support his own weight.

She’d helped Aaron work on the cabin, sealing it as well as she could against the rains that had started. She hadn’t been this tired since walking to San Felipe, but at least then she’d felt hope.

Now, despite finding her husband, despite finally having the home she always wanted, she was miserable. John was no longer the man she had loved. He didn’t know her, didn’t know his own mother or sister. The man she’d fallen in love with, the man whose child she carried, had returned to New Orleans, according to Almanzo, who’d been out once a week to visit.

She had to tell Agnes about her pregnancy, and she didn’t know how. She didn’t know how her mother-in-law would react.

Agnes had been amazing the last few weeks, though, working tirelessly and without complaint as she cared for her son. She was so grateful to have him alive. Even his occasional seizures didn’t frighten her. Instead, Agnes tended her son with grim-faced determination.

Footsteps sounded on the path behind her and for a moment, hope soared as her heart imagined Trace coming for her. But of course he wouldn’t. She was another man’s wife.

She looked up to see Agnes approaching, her brow furrowed. Kit rose to her knees, leaning on the edge of the chamber pot.

“Is John all right?”

“Another seizure,” Agnes said wearily. “He’s resting now. Mary is watching over him.”

Mary avoided her brother as much as she could, even taking over kitchen duties so she wouldn’t be asked to care for him. His missing leg bothered her the most. She wouldn’t even look at him when he was out of bed, struggling from one place to the next.

To Kit’s relief, Mary had become a decent cook in her avoidance, a skill she showed off when Almanzo visited.

“I should get back,” Kit murmured.

“Katherine, you’re ill.”

Kit drew a deep breath. Ready or not, she was going to have this conversation. She shook her head. “Not ill.”

Agnes took a deep breath of her own. “Expecting, then.”

Kit couldn’t meet the older woman’s eyes, not wanting to see Agnes’s disappointment in her. She studied the dusty ground in front of her, distraught at upsetting the woman with the news but relieved to have it in the open. “I haven’t felt like this since I carried Daniel.” She lifted her head and braced herself for her mother-in-law’s anger.

“I’ve suspected.” The other woman’s tone was more sad than angry. “I’m surprised you didn’t before now.”

Kit didn’t know how to tell Agnes that she’d thought about marrying Trace, creating a family with him, imagined his reaction to the news that she was carrying his child. How could she tell her husband’s mother these things?

“No one needs to know. John is my husband. The child will have a name.”

“When he gets better—”

“He’s not going to get better!” As soon as she said the words, she regretted them, and the pain they caused Agnes. The woman refused to see the truth, and none of Kit’s arguments would change that. She softened her tone. “He’s been in the same condition for months, Aaron said.”

“Because he hasn’t had us to care for him!” Agnes snapped. “Now that we’re here, we can make him better. And when he comes back to us, don’t you think he’ll know he didn’t father your child?”

Kit slumped. The longer she spent with John, the more she doubted he’d recover. He hadn’t made an effort, and the damage to his head was extensive. Even now she flinched at the injury she’d seen when she changed his bandage, the indentation in his skull. Before then, she’d hoped and prayed he’d recover, so that she could share her life with him again, so they could mourn the loss of their son together, but as weeks passed, she feared that would never happen.

Kit worried if John didn’t recover, Agnes’s bitterness towards her would deepen. Kit had no idea what would happen to herself. Would she forever be caring for a man who didn’t know her? Would she grow bitter, too?

This was her punishment for falling in love with another man.

“I have to hope he’ll forgive me for the sake of the child,” she said wearily. “I have to hope he’ll understand how frightened and lonely I was.” Still was. Yes, she had the home she’d always wanted. John had finally made good on that promise. But what kind of life was this?

“Frightened!” Agnes exclaimed. “You’re not afraid of the devil himself! You fought the Indians, you brought us here—”

Kit coughed out a laugh. “And was terrified every moment of the way. I never could have done what I did without Trace.”

“Nonsense. You kept us alive long before he got there. You kept him alive. With or without him you would have gotten us here. If he asked for your favors in payment, I’m sure John will understand.”

Kit’s spine snapped straight. “Trace would never have demanded such a thing. I’m the one who turned to him. I’m the one who wanted the comfort he could offer. I loved Trace, Mother.” She hated using the past tense, but she could hardly admit to John’s mother that she longed for the father of her child.

Agnes waved a hand. “You thought you did. You told yourself that. You can’t love one man while you’re married to another.”

She didn’t want to argue with Agnes, and experience had shown her she wouldn’t win, in any case. What she needed was Agnes on her side, to get her through this pregnancy, especially if John recovered.

“Can you forgive me, Mother?”

Agnes folded a slender arm about Kit’s shoulders, the first embrace she’d given Kit since Daniel died. “I can, and so can John, but we need to get you to confession before the child comes. We can’t have you dying in childbirth with this sin on your soul.”

Of course. But how could Kit confess as a sin something she longed for every night?

***

Almanzo came to collect them for Mass early Sunday morning. Aaron agreed to watch over John so the women could attend. Kit worried about seeing too much of Almanzo over the next few months. She didn’t know if he kept contact with Trace, and her body was already beginning to show the effects of her pregnancy, her breasts straining against her bodice despite her effort to let out the seams. She couldn’t let Trace know. What could he do in any case?

Perhaps Almanzo wouldn’t notice for a few weeks, since his attention was so focused on Mary.

“How is John?” he asked Kit as he handed her into the coach.

“No change,” she replied.

His eyebrows furrowed in sympathy. “Is there anything I can offer that will help?”

“I don’t know what could help,” she said honestly as she settled onto the hard seat.

“Is there any way I can make him more comfortable? Make any of you more comfortable? I’m angry with myself for not offering before, but do you need help finishing the cabin? You’ve gotten a lot done, but maybe I can send someone out to help.”

Kit shook her head. “I thank you, Almanzo, but we can’t accept such a thing.” Funny how now she considered what was proper.

Almanzo leaned close, blue eyes earnest. “Trace asked me to look out for you.”

Her heart jumped at his name. “He shouldn’t have done that.” She couldn’t meet Almanzo’s gaze. “We’re not his responsibility.”

“He said you’d say that. He warned me I might have to be underhanded. I thought I’d try being straightforward.”

She heard the smile in his voice but didn’t look at him. “I cannot be beholden to another man. I’m a married woman.”

Almanzo relented, to her relief. She wanted to ask him if he’d heard from Trace. Her pride wouldn’t allow her the question, even if Agnes wasn’t sitting beside her on the coach seat. She had sent him away. She needed to accept her lot and move on.

***

Aaron was waiting for them when they returned from church. One look at his tense expression dampened the joviality of the group. Alarmed, Kit stepped over Almanzo and hopped out of the coach, barely catching her balance before hurrying toward Aaron and grasping his arm.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Barclay had a fit,” the man told her, breaking away and turning toward the house. “Shaking and thrashing around and foaming at the mouth.”

Foaming…Good Lord, were the seizures getting worse? She broke into a run toward the cabin.

John slept on his back—pale, mouth open, with one arm draped over the side of the cot and the other across his stomach, boneless. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest let her know he was alive. She rushed to his side and dropped to her knees beside the bed, resting her palm against his forehead. No fever. She sat back on her heels. If fever wasn’t causing the seizures, the head injury must be.

“Will you ask Mr. Tarleton to come in here?” Fear trembled her voice, but she swallowed it quickly as Agnes and Mary entered the room. She had to ask Almanzo for a favor after all.

***

Dr. Boller, who returned to the cabin with Almanzo at breakneck speed, straightened from the bed, a frown curving his lips down.

“He’s sleeping, not unconscious.”

“But the seizures,” Kit pointed out.

“I see evidence that he bit his tongue during a fit of some kind. Not uncommon in head injuries. How long ago did you say he sustained it?”

“Perhaps six months ago.”

“You say he doesn’t speak.”

“No. And he doesn’t remember us.” She swept her hand to encompass the family. “Though we’ve been caring for him for weeks.”

“His appetite?”

Kit shook her head. “Not as big as Agnes’s, and she eats like a bird.”

The doctor drew his lower lip between yellowed teeth. “The brain may be swelling and the pressure against the skull is too great. That’s likely what’s causing the seizures. Have you considered taking him back to Louisiana?”

She and Agnes had fought about it. Agnes seemed to have forgotten the hardship of their own journey. Kit didn’t believe John was likely to survive such an experience. “The trip would be too difficult.”

“What about San Antonio?” Almanzo asked from across the room. “There are doctors there.”

Dr. Boller shook his head. “No one who can help him. Maybe in the States…”

A hand grasped Kit’s wrist, sending her heart jolting into her throat. She looked down to see John’s eyes open, brilliant blue, focused on her.

For the first time since she’d found him.

His lips moved, slowly, silently, stretching over his teeth. Then, in a voice unfamiliar and yet beloved, he rasped, “I want to die in Texas.”

Kit dropped beside him, curving her hand over his cheek as his mother rushed forward to grab his other hand, her sobs drowning out his rusty voice as he murmured Kit’s name and fell silent again. His eyes drifted closed as Agnes begged for another word, anything, any recognition. Kit’s vision blurred at desperation in Agnes’s voice, but John had lapsed back into unconsciousness, his hand relaxing and releasing hers as it fell back to the cot.

***

“I can accompany you to San Antonio, should you wish to take John there for treatment,” Almanzo offered.

He sat in his shirtsleeves at the dinner table after Kit and Mary had cleared the dishes, and he seemed in no hurry to leave, though the sun had set nearly an hour ago. Kit got the sense he wasn’t staying for Mary’s sake tonight, but for hers. He still hadn’t asked Agnes for permission to court Mary, and Kit wondered if he was second-guessing his choice. Mary hadn’t handled John’s illness well, and while she was more helpful than she’d been at the fort, she seemed to resent being isolated once more. She didn’t make an effort to hide her feelings from Almanzo, and she never spoke of him with any affection. Yet Almanzo still came around, still watched Mary.

She turned her concerns back to the problem at hand. “I’m afraid to subject him to the dangers of travel.”

“The roads between here and San Antonio are fine, and well traveled, not like you endured on the way from the coast. We’ll have the coach. We can make the trip in a day and a half, if we spend the night along the way.”

Kit drew in a breath. “Do you know about the doctors there? What can they do for him that we can’t?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Agnes interrupted. “We need to do all we can for him.”

“And if he should die?” Kit returned. “If the traveling kills him? What then?”

“What if he dies here and we’ve done nothing?” retorted Agnes. “I’m his mother. I want what’s best for him.”

White-hot rage and shock raced through Kit at the implied accusation. “I’m his wife!”

Agnes gave Kit’s belly a pointed look. “Who is having—” She broke off when Kit widened her eyes and made her aware of who would witness these accusations. “Who is having a difficult time adjusting to caring for an invalid husband. All the more reason to see if we can make him well.”

Resentment bubbled—Kit was not having a difficult time. She didn’t enjoy it. She wanted John whole. But she managed. Still, this assertion was better than what Agnes had planned to say.

Almanzo clapped his hands together, startling all of them. “So shall we go, then? Tomorrow?”

“Perhaps the day after,” Kit amended. “We need to get provisions ready, and we’ll need to get an early start. It’s already late.”

Almanzo managed to look sheepish at the pointed look she gave him and rose from the chair. She immediately felt guilty chasing him off, when he had done so much for them. Even the chair he’d been sitting in was one he’d given them.

“It is late.” He collected his jacket near the door. “I shall return Tuesday at dawn. If you need me before that, send Aaron and I’ll be here.”

He turned to bow to Mary, who hung back, though she had to know Almanzo’s intentions. Once John was better, Kit planned to have a word with her about Almanzo and his kindness, though she didn’t want her sister-in-law to feel beholden to a man, either.

“Thank you,” Kit said. She didn’t care if he was being so kind because he wanted to court Mary or because he’d promised Trace he’d look out for her. She would just accept his help with grace and appreciation.

***

“Mr. Tarleton, you need to stop!” Kit called for the second time, holding John’s head steady and pointed away from her. With Agnes’s help, she managed to muscle him toward the edge of the buggy before he vomited over the side.

She hadn’t been as lucky last time.

She held out her handkerchief for John and he wiped the bile from his mouth, even managed to look disgusted with himself.

“The movement of the carriage is making him ill,” she told Almanzo when the horses came to a halt.

“Perhaps we should allow him to sit so he can see where we’re going,” Almanzo offered. “I know I have a difficult time riding backwards.”

But changing seats with Agnes and Mary didn’t make a difference. John’s bony shoulders trembled with fatigue after he retched again over the edge of the carriage.

Agnes rummaged in the food hamper and drew out a biscuit. “Perhaps this will settle his stomach.”

Kit took it skeptically. “He needs to go back. He needs to be back in his bed.”

“To die?” Bitterness sharpened Agnes’s words.

“This trip is killing him. He can’t endure much more.”

Almanzo turned from the driver’s seat, where he sat with Mary. “We can turn back. I can fetch the doctor and bring him.”

Kit hesitated. She didn’t want to ask that huge favor, but John would not survive this journey. Making it home would be difficult enough. John’s weak grip tightened on Kit’s hand, and his blue eyes were riveted on hers.

“Home, Kit.”

Those two words had her heart thudding against her ribs in a mixture of hope and sorrow. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed his fingers. “Yes. Yes, home.”

The seizures started a few miles from home. Pressing his head back against her shoulder, her arm wrapped against his body, she could feel the strength leaving him as the tremors used the last of his energy.

“Don’t die,” she said against his temple. “Don’t die.” Don’t let her decision be the thing that killed him.

He was frailer than ever as Aaron helped her pull him from the buggy when they reached the cabin. Kit’s legs trembled from the fear that he’d almost died in her arms. Almanzo caught her elbow when she stumbled. She fought tears of exhaustion and frustration. She couldn’t show any of them how afraid she was. She’d barely survived mourning John once. She was very afraid she was close to mourning him again.

He suffered another seizure before Almanzo left. He helped Kit stabilize John and stayed with her until Agnes asked him to leave so the women could go to bed.

Tired as she was, Kit couldn’t sleep. Instead, she set a chair beside John’s bed and watched him.

She woke from a doze when she sensed Agnes. The older woman knelt beside the cot, a cup of broth in her hand, a spoon angling toward John’s mouth. He turned his head away, and Kit saw a glimpse of Daniel in his stubborn expression. Kit straightened and Agnes sat back on her heels, wiping her wrist across her forehead in frustration.

“He hasn’t eaten since we returned.”

“He’s not hungry.”

“Kit, you see how thin he is. He’s all bones. The muscle is gone. How can he regain his strength if he won’t eat?”

“We can’t force him to eat.” Kit leaned forward and took the spoon from her mother-in-law. “The doctor will be here tomorrow or the next day. He’ll tell us how to help John.”

Kit saw her own fear in the older woman’s eyes—that John wouldn’t last another day or two, not if he didn’t eat.

The seizures began in earnest that night. The three women and Aaron wore themselves out trying to hold him still so he wouldn’t hurt himself. Agnes triumphed in managing to get some willow bark tea down him while he convulsed, but the small amount seemed to make no difference. Kit wondered that his malnourished body had the energy to fight them so as they pinned him to the cot. Her own well-fed body was limp with fatigue. She ached at the sight of her once-strong husband out of control, dying before her eyes.

Toward morning, the seizures weakened. Kit stretched on the cot beside him, holding him in love. The end had to be near. His heart was slow, his breathing shallow. She wished she could call Almanzo back. Nothing could be done for John now, she was sure. Nothing but making him comfortable.

She roused, blinking, when the door opened, and two tall men strode in. For a moment, just a moment, she thought Trace had come, then hated herself for wanting to be rescued by the man she’d loved while her husband was dying.

“How is he?” Almanzo swept his hat off and turned away as Kit climbed stiffly from the cot.

“The seizures have taken his strength, and he won’t eat,” she managed, blinking against the light that came in behind the two men. How long had she slept?

“Mrs. Katherine Barclay, this is Dr. Josef de la Baume.” Almanzo gestured toward the towering, rail-thin elderly man who stood in the doorway.

Kit smoothed a hand over her hair and her dress; then, realizing it made no difference, she stepped toward the older man with an outstretched hand. Had the men traveled all night to get here? They must have. “Dr. de la Baume, it’s good of you to come.”

He clasped her hand briefly, his attention already on the man on the cot. “He has a head injury?” His voice held a hint of France. He moved past her to John’s side.

“Yes, he was shot by outlaws on the Louisiana border.” She opened the window beside the door to give the doctor more light.

“And the ball was removed?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

She smoothed her hair back. “I’m not sure.”

“This happened several months ago?”

“Nearly six. But the seizures only began lately.”

“Infection, inflammation, perhaps part of the ball was left inside,” the old man muttered, turning John’s head this way and that, not caring that he woke his patient. “He is not eating.”

“No.”

“Or speaking.”

“Not since yesterday, and that was an effort.”

“The damage to that area of the brain sometimes causes the throat to stop working. He is likely unable to swallow.”

“How can we remedy that?”

The old man’s mouth thinned. “You may try thickening the liquids with flour. He won’t care for the taste, but he may get some nourishment that way. At the very least, you can get some willow bark tea into him.”

“What can we do to stop the seizures?”

The doctor straightened. “The swelling brain is causing these, and the willow bark is the best to reduce this. Is he feverish?”

“Now and again.”

“I believe part of the ball is still in his brain.”

“You can remove it?”

“Young woman,” the doctor snapped. “I do not go digging around in a man’s brain.”

“But if you don’t he may die.”

“And if I do he may, also. He is quite weak.”

Frustration tightened her shoulders. “Sir, Mr. Tarleton traveled all the way to San Antonio to fetch you to help us, and you’ve told us nothing we don’t already know. Nothing we haven’t already tried.”

The doctor’s blue eyes softened. “This is beyond the capability of any doctor I know, Mistress. Your husband’s fate is in God’s hands.”

Chapter Fourteen

Kit gripped the rail of the ship, her eyes on the distant Louisiana shore. The ocean breeze tugged at her black bonnet, but she didn’t care if the bonnet was ripped from her.

John had died a month ago, only days after the doctor from San Antonio left. She had buried him by the river, and afterward she had borne up Agnes and Mary in their grief. Her own heart was numb. She’d mourned her husband once, and the man she’d cared for the past month and more was not the man she’d known. She was sad, yes, that her efforts had not brought him back, that she’d lost him forever, but a peace also came with his death. He would have been so angry, if he’d been in his right mind, to be such a burden.

Two weeks after his funeral, Kit had felt her baby move for the first time, a fluttering deep within her.

She would be lying to say she hadn’t thought of Trace in the days after John’s death. She didn’t want to amplify the scandal of their relationship by running to her lover when her husband was barely in the ground. But her child was growing within her. A child who deserved a father.

Agnes had fought with her over her decision to go to New Orleans. Agnes had wanted her to wait to travel back with them. The three of them had returned to San Felipe after John’s death, but Almanzo’s suit was refused. Mary wanted to go home, and Agnes would not leave without her things from the fort. Ever patient, Almanzo sent some of his rangers to retrieve the china and other belongings Trace had forced them to leave behind. Kit was sad that Mary had refused Almanzo. After all he’d done for them, Kit wanted him to find happiness.

But Kit was done with waiting. The Wessons, a family who’d had enough of the wilds of Texas and were returning home to Alabama, were leaving and agreed to have Kit accompany them. They thought her no more than a pregnant widow, mourning the loss of her husband. At least their belief excused her melancholy behavior.

The truth was, she didn’t know what Trace would do when she found him. She’d sent him away because her husband lived. Now she was returning to him, carrying his child, a widow once more. Would he be angry? Hurt? She was fairly certain he wouldn’t welcome her with open arms. But she had to offer him the chance to be a father to his child.

To offer a new beginning for both of them.

***

Trace sat in the bar in the French Quarter and stared into the bottom of his whiskey—good stuff, this time. Smooth enough to wipe the memory of Kit Barclay right out of his mind.

“I should have known I’d find you here.”

He looked up into his father’s hard eyes. When he was thirteen, Trace’s height had outpaced his father’s, and now stood a head taller, but the man’s hard eyes intimidated him still. “Were you looking for me?”

“Your mother is worried.” His father took the barstool beside him, but no affection or concern colored his voice. “You disappear for months, then you show up again in worse shape than when you left, and you don’t come home for days. Your mother thought you’d gone back to Texas.”

“Thinking about it.” He drained his glass and motioned to the bartender for another.

“You running away again?”

“Done with that. Running to, this time.”

His father blew out an impatient breath. “Trace, what happened to you there?”

“Fell in love.” Though his heart ached to admit it.

“With Texas?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He sipped from his refilled glass, staring straight ahead at the mirrored wall.

He had never confided in his father in his life, and he wasn’t going to start now. No one knew about Kit, because he hadn’t wanted to explain how he’d screwed up. Unable to return to the house he’d shared with Angelina, he’d returned to his father’s house. He’d made arrangements to sell his house and planned to move into the rooms above his father’s office. But he needed more distance than that, he realized now. Texas should be far enough, although he couldn’t return to Kit. No, she would be back in John’s bed, perhaps carrying his child. He hadn’t contacted Almanzo, afraid that he’d write back that Kit was happy and had forgotten about him.

He wasn’t ready to hear that. He did think about moving back to Texas, living as a bachelor in peaceful solitude where his family wouldn’t interfere with his drinking.

“A woman came by the house looking for you.”

The words took a moment to pierce his whiskey-fogged mind. “A woman?”

“Blonde, young. Anxious. And lovely. What have you done, Trace, to have a young woman coming to the house looking for you?”

Hope welled so unexpectedly he almost choked on it. He stood, taking a second to find his balance, affected by drink and emotion. “Where is she?” Already his mind raced. Only so many hotels in New Orleans…should only take a day or two to find her, unless she was staying with family. He’d never learned her maiden name.

His father reached into his breast pocket slowly, withdrew a card, yet held it back when Trace reached for it. “Who is she? Some fortune hunter?”

Fortune hunter, no. His fortune, his future, yes, he hoped to God. “I won’t know if I don’t go see her.”

His father’s thin lips thinned further, and he gave him the card. Trace realized he’d never seen Kit’s handwriting. He was laying a lot on the idea that Kit was the woman his father was talking about. It wasn’t likely to be her. She was in Texas with John, carving out a new life. So why was he so certain it was?

He read the address of the hotel, a fine one in the French Quarter, as he strode toward the door, grabbed his hat from the rack, and rushed out.

He wished for his horse, but he walked more in the city. He’d walked to work today, and later, to the saloon. It was close enough to his father’s office to make that possible. But now he’d have to walk blocks to get to Kit.

Each step was like moving through mud. Each block felt longer than a mile in the Texas wilderness. Then the hotel loomed above him, and he stopped.

What if it wasn’t her? Could he deal with that disappointment? Worse, what if it was her, and she had another reason for seeking him out?

Hell, he’d braved Indians for this woman. He could walk into a hotel lobby and see if she waited for him. Gathering himself, he strode forward, pushed through the wide gilded doors.

He’d know her here. She’d stand out in the throng of fashionable ladies and gentlemen. He scanned the room, with its guests milling about, the women in wide dresses in silks and taffetas, the men in finely woven suits.

Then he saw her, by the window, in the dress Agnes and Mary had made her, so plain among the finery of the hotel, but lovely on her. Her breasts strained against the bodice, and her face was fuller, rounder. Eating well in Texas, he supposed.

Her eyes were wary, either of her surroundings or her expectation of his welcome. Doubt tightening his gut, he crossed the room. She turned to face him, fingers twisting in the strap of the reticule she held in front of her. He swept off his hat as he got close.

“Trace.”

He’d forgotten how he loved her voice, the deep, matter-of-fact huskiness of it. “It’s good to see you.” He couldn’t make himself ask why she was here.

She glanced around the lobby. “Shall we—can we go for a walk?”

He nodded and offered his arm, anticipating her touch. She hesitated a moment but curved her hand over his forearm. Just that gentle, genteel touch sent warmth rushing through him.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she murmured as they strolled toward the river.

Was she going to make him ask? “Kit.”

“John died last month.”

“And you’re here—?”

She stopped walking and turned to him, dropping her hands to her side. “I’m carrying your child, Trace.”

His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly, which she’d hidden behind her clasped arms. Blood drained from his face, and he couldn’t think. She was pregnant. With his child. He didn’t doubt it, given the roundness of her belly, and Kit had never been anything but honest with him.

She waited for a response, barely breathing, her own cheeks turning rosy, and the hopeful light in her eyes dimmed as she took a step back.

“I’m sorry. I should have written first. I just didn’t want you to find out that way.”

Thoughts whirled through his head, bumped into each other. He should marry her. His child, his child. Her hand lifted toward the curve of her belly but dropped away as if she didn’t want to draw his attention to it.

Angelina hadn’t been self-conscious about her pregnancy. She’d caressed her belly almost constantly, always with the most serene expression. She hadn’t dreamed she’d never be able to hold her baby.

Kit’s expression was tight, hurt. Of course. He hadn’t said anything, couldn’t think of what to say. His emotions bounced from one extreme to another. Kit had come back to him, she was having his baby. He could lose her all over again in childbirth, as he’d lost Angelina.

He wasn’t capable of enduring that pain again.

But he couldn’t turn her away. Wouldn’t. He loved her.

“We’ll get married quietly.” People would talk, no doubt. Her pregnancy was advanced enough to be noticeable, especially if they waited much longer. Certainly people would notice the early arrival of the child. If he introduced her as a friend’s widow, well, that might be the way to go, because even if she was in mourning, she would want a father for her child. “Your husband was my friend, should people ask. You need my help.”

“Your charity, you mean.” Kit fought the tears that threatened, and hated that the effort made her voice shake. Of all the reactions she’d imagined, this wasn’t one. She hadn’t thought his proposal would include an alibi. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“I’m trying to reason it out. People will talk.”

Her shoulders tensed further. “I didn’t think you’d care about that.”

He blew an exasperated breath through his nose. “I’m trying to protect you, Kit.”

“I didn’t come here for that, either.” Didn’t he see why she’d come? She loved him, wanted to have a life with him, wanted to raise her child with him. All he could think about was the scandal.

She’d thought she knew him. But of course he would think of the scandal. He was a lawyer from a well-to-do family. She was a pregnant widow who had given herself to him outside of wedlock. Agnes had been right. She shouldn’t have come.

But she hadn’t been able to stay away.

Right now, however, she didn’t want to be near him, not when his thoughts were consumed with details and decorum. She needed to give him time, to let him come to grips with the news. After all, she’d had months to get used to the idea. She just thought…no, why would she have thought he’d be happy? He’d come to her after losing the woman he loved in childbirth. Of course he didn’t want to be reminded of that so soon.

She folded her reticule and took another step back toward the hotel. “You need—to think about what you want to do. I’m staying at the hotel under Mrs. John Barclay.”

“You’re here alone?” The sharp words cut through the humid air.

“I traveled from Texas with another family, but yes, I’m staying alone.”

He stiffened, no doubt at the further impropriety. “Kit, it’s not safe. Why aren’t you staying with your family?”

She turned away. “I haven’t been to see my mother yet.” She hadn’t wanted to see her until she knew what her future held. Yes, she could do as Trace suggested and tell everyone this was John’s baby. That would be simplest. But she would always know the truth, and she would have to live with the lie, once told.

Trace frowned. “Let me talk to my family. Perhaps you can stay with us.”

“I don’t want that. I can take care of myself.”

A smile quirked his lips. “I know that better than anyone.”

He moved toward her but didn’t reach for her. She wanted him to touch her, even in the most casual way. She wanted reassurance she’d done the right thing coming here.

“I’ll walk you back to the hotel. May I accompany you to supper tonight?”

Goodness, he was so stiff. She studied him, looking for the man she’d fallen in love with, given herself to, the man whose child she was having, but she didn’t see him, and her breaking heart cracked further. She turned toward the hotel and he fell into step beside her, not offering his arm this time.

“Dinner would be fine.”

“Your health? I mean, you’re eating all right? You’re not sick? My sister was weak with illness, but Angelina never missed a meal.” He stopped abruptly as if he realized comparing her pregnancy to his dead wife’s wasn’t a good idea.

“I’m perfectly healthy. Perhaps you need longer to get used to the idea.”

“Kit, I’m sorry.”

He pushed his hand through his hair, which was shorter. Better kept. She missed the shagginess.

“I don’t know what to say.”

She squared her shoulders. “Then don’t say anything until you do know.” She strode away, only partly hoping he’d follow.

***

What the hell was wrong with him? Trace stood at the window of his law office and looked out over the French Quarter. For months, Trace had mourned the fact that Kit was hundreds of miles away.

Now she was blocks away and he was fretting because she’d showed up carrying his child.

She’d come to him. Which meant she loved him. And he’d acted like a fool.

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and hurried out of the office.

Once he got to her hotel, he faced a dilemma. Her room wasn’t difficult to find. Trace watched movement in the lobby, saw a bellboy with a tray carrying a single serving make his way up the stairs. If Kit was alone in the city, wouldn’t she eat in her room?

Without thought to propriety, he hurried up the stairs, his eyes on the bellboy. He saw Kit open a door on the fourth floor to accept the tray. Once the young man left, pocketing a coin, Trace made his move. He rapped on the door and it opened right away.

Kit’s eyes widened when she saw Trace standing in the hallway. “Trace!” She glanced down the hall. “What are you doing here?”

“I acted like a fool before. I’m sorry.”

“You’re acting like a fool now, for someone who was so worried about what people will think.” She hesitated, unsure of how to react.

He took a step forward when it looked she was considering slamming the door in his face. “I missed you, Kit. God, I missed you. I thought I’d lost you.”

After another nervous glance around the hall, she grabbed his sleeve and drew him into the room, closing the door. She took in a deep breath, and he thought she was going to berate him for coming to her room. Before she could, he scooped his hand under her hair and kissed her.

Kissing her was like coming home. The taste of her, the softness of her lips, her body. He stroked his fingers in the fine hair at the back of her neck as he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him. Her arms wound around his shoulders and she brought herself up on tiptoe to press closer, soft breasts, hard curve of her belly. He hesitated for just a moment at the sensation before sweeping his hand down to rest at the small of her back and bring her against him. She sighed and slid her fingers into his hair, loosening it from its stiffly combed style and smiling against his mouth. He whispered her name against her skin, fisting his hands in her skirt, as if that would ground him, slow down his need for her.

She slid her hands down his arms to clasp his fingers, and she moved toward the bed.

The large, soft-looking bed in the center of the room. As if his willpower wasn’t tested enough. They needed to talk, make plans, not fall upon each other like love-starved fools.

But she was so beautiful, standing there with the glow of the setting sun through the window lighting her from behind, her eyes alive with the same hunger that had brought him here. When she lifted her fingers to the row of buttons at her bodice, he couldn’t look away. When he tried to say her name, his mouth was dry. He watched as the fabric fell apart over the curve of her breasts, fuller beneath her chemise. He’d forgotten that benefit of pregnancy. He wasn’t breathing as the dress fell to pool at her feet.

The swell of his child stretched the thin fabric of the chemise he had bought her.

His child.

The emotions that collided inside him—pride, joy and terror—nearly sent him running again. Instead he stepped toward her. Relief flickered in her eyes as he slid his arms around her waist and bent his head to hers.

Her hands slid up his chest and made short work of the buttons of his shirt, and then her hands were on him, small and warm and strong. He broke the kiss to watch her, holding her loosely against him, and could barely catch his breath. She slid the shirt from his shoulders, skimming her hands down his skin. He said her name again when she removed her hands to lift her chemise over her head in a fluid move.

Then she was beneath him, and over him as the swell of the child made them shift positions. Her fine hair tumbled down to catch in the stubble of his cheek, to float over his chest in an erotic caress, and she smiled, the curve of her lips making his heart kick.

“Missed you,” he murmured, curving his hand around the back of her head and curling his body up to kiss her.

With a few flicks of her fingers, his pants were undone and her hands curled around his sex, already aching with the need to be inside her. Her light touch had him gritting his teeth.

“Not yet.” He needed to taste her, savor her and adore her as he had in so many fantasies these past months. Still cradling her head in his hand, he kissed the curve of her throat, her bare shoulder, her full breast, curling his tongue around her nipple until she pulled back.

“Tender,” she said on a gasp. She dragged his hands up her bare thighs to her own sex, and tossed her head back in pleasure when he touched her, finding her swollen, wet and ready.

This time when she said his name, her voice echoed with need. She shifted her body to brush over his sex, chasing his breath away, before she took him inside her.

He tightened his grip on her, lowering his head to her breast, unable to stop the groan of pleasure as her body encircled him, slick and hot. Her knees dug into his hips as she began to move, an awkward slide at first. He cupped her bottom in his hands and guided her, raising his hips into hers, lifting his gaze to watch her, lips parted, eyes wide with wonder as they explored the new rhythm.

Their mouths found each other, open, eager. Her hands coursed down his back, his arms, curling in his hair. For the first time, she didn’t have to be quiet, and she moaned her pleasure with each thrust. He shifted his grip to her thighs, the better to tease her to the completion about to consume him. To his surprise and delight, she moved into his touch, arms tight about his shoulders as she looked into his eyes.

He watched hers glaze with pleasure. Her head fell back as a keen of delight vibrated from her throat. He followed her into the climax as her body clutched around his.

They fell together to the bed, facing each other, her fingers still dancing over his skin, all energy.

“I love you,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. “I’ve missed you.”

Before he could force any words past the emotion in his throat, he felt a poke against his stomach. Not Kit, whose fingers now twirled in his hair. The child. The child had kicked him.

His skin iced even as Kit eased back to look at him, delight in her eyes.

“Did you feel that?”

He had. The hope conveyed by that little kick was followed by pure terror. He’d experienced this before, the joy of a new life, the proof of it, before death had snatched it away. He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his pants, his body numb, as if he hadn’t just experienced the pleasures of making love with the woman who owned his heart.

“I’ll speak to our priest,” he said without looking at her. He hadn’t been to church since Angelina died, and would likely have to atone for that—monetarily if not spiritually—before a wedding could occur. “I don’t know how long it will take to arrange the wedding. Certainly it will happen before the baby’s born. In the meantime, I would like you to meet my family. I’ll arrange a dinner, then send word here.”

Her breathing had changed, but he dared not look at her. He could sense her disappointment in his altered mood, and didn’t want to see it reflected on her face.

“I won’t come to your room again. I’ll call for you from the lobby.”

The mattress creaked as she shifted on the bed. “I didn’t come here for your benevolence, Trace. I came to share this with you. You know as well as anyone I can take care of myself, and my child.”

He chanced a look over his shoulder to see her propped on one elbow, still naked, her hair tumbled over her shoulder, her hand caressing her stomach as if the child could feel her affection.

“We will share.”

“How? When you’re pulling away from me already? Do you think I’m not frightened?” She sat up then, drawing her legs under her, so beautiful, so determined, so brave. Wasn’t that what had drawn him to her in the first place? “Yes, you lost a child. So did I. I, too, remember the pain. How could I not? But now I feel the life growing inside of me and I remember the love. More than anything, I remember the love. And this child? Trace, when I feel this child move, I remember how you loved me. When I felt this child move for the first time, I knew I had to come to you. I don’t want your money or your protection. I want you to love me as you did in Texas. I want you to love our child.”

Her words twisted in his heart, but he couldn’t respond. Instead, he drew on his shirt and jacket and crossed the room to the door. He owed her more, so much more than to leave her bed without a kiss, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her right now.

“I’ll call for you tomorrow for supper. Do you have the money you need?”

Her response was to hurl a pillow, hard enough to make a thump against the wood of the door.

“Coward!” she said as he opened the door and slipped out.

***

Kit debated moving to another hotel, just to see how long it would take Trace to track her down. But she hadn’t come to play games. Trace would need to accept her and the child or she would return to Texas. Her child had a name. She just wanted him to have his father as well.

Trace wasn’t the only one with fears. And her fears didn’t end at the birthing chamber. So much might go wrong. Riding on the edge of joy was a fear so strong, she couldn’t address it because it would choke her. How could she get Trace to understand?

He still needed time. She’d had months to adjust to the idea, and he’d had hours. She’d believed, when he had come to her last night and put his arms around her, that he’d accepted their child and all her hopes for the future. That intercourse was all he’d wanted hurt. She wanted that and so much more. He’d always given her more without her asking.

Now he waited in the lobby to take her to his mother’s table. Tension tightened her body, and the baby, sensing it, flipped frantically within her. She needed to calm down for his sake.

She saw Trace the moment she stepped onto the landing of the staircase. He stood in the middle of the marble lobby, hat in his hands, his hair once again combed against his head, giving him such a severe look. She wanted to run her fingers through it to muss it.

His expression relaxed when he saw her, though the look in his eyes remained distant, as if he were playing out every possibility in his head. What must his family be like, to have him so uptight? He moved to the foot of the stairs, ready to take her arm as she descended.

“You look lovely,” he murmured when she tucked her arm in the curve of his.

She knew it wasn’t so. She wore the same dress as yesterday, though she’d visited a modiste today to order some larger dresses. Still, this was her best dress, and mostly concealed her pregnancy.

“Does your family live far?” she asked when he led her to a waiting carriage, one that made Almanzo’s look like a hay wagon, with a matching team of bays. A far cry from the means with which they’d crossed the Texas coastal plains. She knew his family was wealthy, but seeing proof of it didn’t put her at ease.

“No, but I don’t like walking through the Quarter after dark.” He handed her into the carriage.

“This is their carriage, or yours?” she asked.

“Theirs.”

“And Atrius? He’s well? He made the return journey?”

“He’s fine, on the family farm playing stud. Well deserved after his trek, don’t you agree?”

How were they holding such a conversation? So banal, nothing like they had discussed in Texas. How could she long for such hard times when she sat in this luxurious coach?

Because she’d been with the man she loved. This man was a stranger.

They pulled up in front of a red brick two-story home, situated flush against a street just east of the Quarter.

“This is your home?” Kit asked, breathless, as he stepped down to assist her. She couldn’t keep her eyes from the place, even as he took her hand in his.

“My parents’ home, yes. I’m staying here until I can find suitable lodgings.” He looked down at her. “I suppose we should begin working on that—finding our home.”

There was no joy in his face, in his voice, when he said the words. She wished she’d never come here. She wished he’d never taken her into his arms last night and made her vulnerable to him again. Why was he so different? Was he that afraid? Or was he still hurt that she’d stayed with her ailing husband instead of coming with him?

“I wouldn’t wish for anyplace so grand,” she said as he lifted the knocker on the door. “Or so much in the middle of everything.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond before the door opened and a servant greeted them with a formal bow.

“Mr. Watson. Your mother is expecting you in the parlor,” the man said in a deep voice.

Butterflies tumbled in Kit’s stomach as Trace guided her through the gleaming foyer with polished floors and banister, sparkling mirrors and a modest chandelier overhead. Shipping, he’d said, was his family’s business. Apparently they did very well. Ahead of her in the hall was a family portrait: a stern, tall father who looked like Trace when his hair was combed down, though his brow was more prominent and his dimples non-existent; a beautiful, dark-haired mother with lovely light brown eyes like Trace’s, her serene expression marred by her tight mouth; three boys and a girl, all dressed in their finest. Kit moved closer for a better look. Trace was the oldest, no more than fifteen in this picture, slender, his hair very short. Even in the portrait she could see a wildness in his eyes, a need to escape.

So why had he returned?

“How old were you here?”

“Thirteen.”

“I thought you had only one brother.”

“The youngest died,” he said shortly, stepping back toward an open doorway. “My mother is waiting to meet you.”

Again Kit battled back nerves. She wouldn’t be so anxious if Trace were acting as he had before, as if he would support her no matter what. She no longer got that feeling from him. In fact, she felt he was leading her into the lion’s den.

His mother sat near a window, looking not much older than she had in the picture, her chestnut hair a shade darker than Trace’s. She wore a lovely dark blue gown with lace around the neckline and sleeves, and beside her rested a tea service with three cups. Kit’s stomach rumbled. She’d thought Trace had said they would be eating dinner, so she conserved her funds and hadn’t eaten much for lunch. They were only having tea?

Beside her sat a young woman with Trace’s features, odd-looking on such a narrow face. His sister Jillian, she presumed.

“Mother, Jillian, I would like to introduce Mrs. Katherine Barclay, the widow of my friend John.”

Kit wished they’d discussed this further. Was Trace to have known John before? How? Lying about their relationship seemed disrespectful to John’s memory.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watson, Jillian.” Kit moved forward to take the older woman’s hand.

“Mrs. Barclay.” Trace’s mother’s back was straight, as if she was drawing away from Kit. Her gaze fixed on Kit’s belly. What had Trace told her? “Will you have some tea?”

“Yes, please.” She sat on the edge of the formal settee, hoping Trace would sit beside her. Instead, he kissed his mother’s cheek, patted his sister’s head as if she were only five and turned toward the door.

“I’ll say hello to Papa,” he said.

Kit waited for a grin or something as he closed the door behind him. She needed some gesture to connect them as he abandoned her, but he didn’t even glance her way. She felt more alone than ever.

“George told us you traveled to New Orleans all alone,” Mrs. Watson said as she poured the tea.

Kit jolted at the name George. Would she ever be accustomed to people calling Trace that? “I traveled with another family.” Kit accepted the delicate china cup. She’d never held something so fine.

“They’d had their fill of Texas?” Jillian asked.

Kit smiled and lifted the cup to her lips. “It’s not an easy place.”

“It cost you your husband.”

Kit was taken aback by Mrs. Watson’s directness. “Yes.” She didn’t add that it cost her child too. She didn’t know what Trace had told her, and she didn’t want to discuss Daniel’s death the first time she met Trace’s family, for she would certainly end in tears, and she didn’t want to leave the impression she was weak.

“And your family? Are they here?” Jillian asked.

Again, Kit was surprised by the question. But she thought she understood. Trace had money. Kit showed up, pregnant and widowed. His family would think her a fortune hunter.

“They live north of the city.”

“Yet you came here first, to George.”

“To let him know John, my husband, had died.” That she was free. “After the journey, after being in Texas, I wanted to be in a city for a bit, as well. There aren’t many luxuries in the colony.”

“You have the funds for that? For the hotel where you’re staying?” Mrs. Watson asked. “It’s very dear.”

“I won’t stay long, just long enough to decide what to do next.”

“You don’t dress in mourning,” Jillian pointed out.

Kit gripped the fine teacup with both hands. “As I said, there aren’t many luxuries in Texas. The one store in the Austin Colony would only get fabric every few months, and black is hardly a color one wants to wear in that Texas heat.”

“But you mourn your husband?” Mrs. Watson asked, not touching her own tea.

Kit stiffened her shoulders, working very hard not to find offense. “Of course.”

“And you have the means to support your child?”

“Mother,” Trace said from the door. “That’s enough.”

She turned to her son. “You want to marry this woman, to raise her child. Don’t you think I should know everything about her?”

“No, Mother.” He crossed to the couch and stood behind Kit.

His show of support was too late. Kit shook all over with anger and shame.

Mrs. Watson straightened further. “You don’t find it strange that she doesn’t even want a mourning period?”

“She wants a father for her child, the protection of a husband.”

Anger rose in her and she battled it back. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wouldn’t live this lie.

“I’m sorry.” She stood. “I’m not feeling well. I appreciate your hospitality, Mrs. Watson.” Such as it was. “But I must excuse myself.” She held out a hand to Trace. “I’ll find my way back to the hotel. You should stay and have dinner with your family. I thank you again for the invitation.” She prayed her stomach wouldn’t rumble again and betray her.

As Trace had done.

Her mind already spun with questions about what she would do next as she set the fragile teacup back on the tray. She hadn’t even tasted the tea. She wouldn’t have been able to swallow during her interrogation anyway. At least her hands hadn’t trembled.

She didn’t glance at Trace as she turned to the door, concentrating on not allowing her footsteps to echo with her anger, her frustration, her disappointment.

“Kit. Kit!” Trace’s voice bounced off the walls, and his footsteps were quick and heavy behind her.

She didn’t turn. He caught her arm.

“It was a mistake, coming here.” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. But even when she closed her eyes, she saw his beloved face as he held her last night. “Don’t worry. I’ll go to my family in the morning. You won’t see me again.”

“Do you think that’s what I want?”

“I don’t know what you want,” she said with a quick glance past him to ensure no one had followed them. She wanted love, wanted a partnership, everything they’d shared in Texas. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. She pulled her arm free. “I don’t know if you do, either. Goodbye, Trace.”

“I’m not going to let you walk away.”

“Why? So you can subject me to humiliation again? Why did you come to me last night, Trace?”

“Not for the reason you think.”

“I am not a whore. You may think that I am, but I love you.”

“I don’t think that. I wouldn’t have brought you to meet my family if that was what I wanted from you.”

“You didn’t bring me to meet them. You brought me to be tested.” She did look at him then, standing in his finery, carefully combed and shaved in the expensive home. “You aren’t the man I thought you were. I’m sorry I came.”

His jaw tightened. “At least take the carriage, if you won’t allow me to accompany you,” he said. “I want to make sure you get back safely. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

She agreed to take the carriage, but only because she was too wrung out to fight. But on the way back to the hotel, she determined they wouldn’t talk about this in the morning. She’d be gone.

Chapter Fifteen

Kit’s eyes were gritty and swollen the next morning as she rode the stage out of town. She’d cried most of the night, mourning the man she thought she’d known, the future she thought they’d have together. She’d crawled out of bed early and packed, then walked down to the dressmaker to arrange to have her new clothes sent to her mother’s house. Then she bought a ticket on the stage, settled her bill at the hotel and was on her way.

The whole time she’d made her preparations, she looked over her shoulder, half hoping, half dreading Trace would come after her, determined to make things right.

He hadn’t, and her disappointment would have brought more tears, had she had any left.

She didn’t need him, or his money, and especially not his family. Her child had a name and, when she reached her mother’s farm, a home.

Never would she have thought she would miss Agnes and her unflinching loyalty.

But she missed Trace more, the man who’d seen her as a partner, not the man who’d seen her as a threat. The man who’d worshiped her body and admired her bravery and spoke to her as an equal. She hadn’t changed. Why had he?

Had she wasted those last days with her husband longing for a man who hadn’t really existed?

Her mother’s farm was not at all as Kit remembered. Of course, she’d been gone five years. Her father had died shortly after Daniel was born, and though her mother had begged her and John to stay to help out on a farm that could one day be theirs, John had been determined to go to Texas.

Guilt weighed heavily on Kit as she walked up the rutted drive, toting her meager satchel of possessions. She hadn’t wanted to return. She’d known she’d find conditions like this and she wanted more for her child. More for herself. She didn’t want them to have to scratch out their survival. And she didn’t want to be alone.

The house was bare wood and weathered, the roof patched haphazardly. The fields were overgrown, and only a cow and calf lingered near the barn, in an area where the chickens had scratched through to the earth. Was her mother still here? Was anyone still here?

The battered door swung open and a slender woman stepped out on the porch, her face browned and lined by the sun and hard work. She wiped her hands on her apron.

“Katherine? That you?”

Kit burst into tears. She dropped her satchel in the dirt and ran forward to embrace her mother. The older woman hesitated for a moment at the show of affection, then patted Kit’s back awkwardly.

“It’s good to see you.” Ruth’s voice was rough with emotion.

Kit couldn’t help comparing her mother’s primitive home to Trace’s fine, polished one. Her mother’s home was simple, built with Kit’s father’s own hands. The furniture inside was also handmade. This was what she would have had with John, had he lived. She would have been happy, content with it, had he stayed with her. Had he lived.

Elaborating on what she had written so briefly in her letter from Austin’s colony, she told her mother of the report of John’s death, of Daniel’s illness and her own helplessness. She recounted her son’s death with dry eyes. She told her of the journey west from the fort, and of discovering John was alive. Still without a tear, she spoke of how she’d cared for him until he died, how she’d buried him.

“And this child?” Her mother indicated her stomach. “If John was so ill…”

Kit swallowed the first burn of tears. Only Agnes and Trace knew the truth about her child, but she couldn’t keep the truth from her mother. “The child isn’t John’s.”

The tightening of her mother’s mouth was her only reaction. “A soldier?”

“The man who escorted us from the fort.”

“He took your body in payment?”

Kit drew in a deep breath and lifted her gaze to her mother. “In love.”

Ruth sat heavily back in her chair. “Katherine.”

Kit’s nose burned. She would not cry over him anymore.

“Where is he?”

“New Orleans.”

“Ah. You went to him first.”

Kit didn’t know how to respond. “He needed to know.”

Ruth’s mouth tightened more. “And he didn’t care to know.”

“He planned to marry me. But he wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

Ruth snuffed out a laugh. “And that was enough to send you away? Did he hit you?”

Kit gaped. “No! Of course not! He’d never do such a thing.” But of course her mother’s experience had led her to expect very little civility from men. Kit took a deep breath. “I thought he loved me, Mother. I was wrong.”

Ruth leaned forward then. “I don’t know where you got your ideas about love. You loved John. What did that get you but dragged around the country and widowed? You loved this other man and it got you pregnant and back home with your mama. What good is love, I ask you? If he didn’t hit you and he’s willing to marry you when you already showed a lack of morals, you’re foolish not to wed. You know your father and I didn’t have love when we wed, but we learned to respect and care for each other. That’s all you need.”

Kit’s heart dropped like a ball of lead. Had she made a mistake, wanting more from Trace than he could give her? Was being married to him, raising this child with him, enough? She lowered her head to her hands folded on the table. Foolish, foolish.

Her mother patted her head. “You’re worn out, no doubt. Take the bed, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll think clearer in the morning.”

“I’m not going to take your bed, Mother.”

“I’ll be fine on the floor. I don’t need much sleep these days, anyway.”

Another kick of guilt. Kit had spilled all the news from her life and hadn’t asked her mother what had occurred in her life the past few years. By the looks of things, not much had changed. How could her mother bear living out here alone, everything the same day after day? Staying in the fort, even with Agnes and Mary for company, Kit had nearly lost her mind.

Sleep would be good. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and the trip out here had been tense and exhausting. She nodded and rose stiffly. “I feel like I could sleep for a month.”

“Everything will look better in the morning.”

Those familiar words made Kit smile, for the first time in what seemed like days. “It’s good to see you, Mama.” She leaned down and kissed the top of her mother’s head before slipping into the other room and closing the door.

***

Kit fell into old patterns the next few days, working around the farm, taking some of the responsibilities from her mother, making note of what needed to be taken care of. Already she had decided she wasn’t staying. She didn’t know where she’d go—back to Trace or back to Texas. Both would require swallowing pride. She didn’t savor either option, but she wouldn’t stay here, raising her baby alone with her mother on a failing farm.

At least she felt rested and productive in a way she hadn’t since they left the fort. After an afternoon rainstorm, Kit dragged out the ladder from the rickety barn and climbed up to the roof of the house to hammer down some loose shingles. Her mother shouted protests as Kit maneuvered up the ladder, having to take her swelling belly into account as she climbed.

Her mother gripped the base of the ladder. “You always were too stubborn for your own good. Be careful with my grandbaby.”

As the words came out of her mouth, Kit tripped on the hem of the skirt of her old homespun, which she’d left mostly unbuttoned because of the fit and the heat. She caught herself before she slid down two rungs, splinters from the ladder digging into her palm.

“Kit!” Ruth cried.

“I’m fine.” She stopped, hiked her skirt up, tucking it into the waist of her dress before she continued up the ladder, now cautious of where she placed her hands, sore and bloody where the slivers of wood had embedded into the skin.

She crawled on the roof on all fours, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a hammer and nails.

“Kit!” Another urgent call from the bottom of the ladder carried up to her as the echo from her hammer faded.

When she turned to see what her mother was worried about now, she saw the dust rising along the road.

“We have company,” Ruth said needlessly.

A lone rider on a horse. A familiar roan.

She stood on the roof and shaded her eyes, straining for sight of Trace. It had to be him. She cursed her heart for racing with excitement, for swelling with hope.

Her mouth felt dry as he came into view, his hair flopping beneath a grey felt hat, shoulders square and tight, though his hand was loose on the reins. Yet she couldn’t move as he drew his horse in and dismounted, sliding his hat back as he looked up at her.

“Katherine, get my baby off that roof.”

His words made her stiffen with temper. She pressed her hand to her stomach and looked into his exasperated face. “We are fine. And we’re not done yet.”

He strode to the ladder, chasing Ruth out of the way, and took her place at the bottom, gripping the wooden posts in both hands.

“Then I’ll come up there.”

“Why are you here at all?”

He placed a booted foot on the bottom rung. “For you.”

Her heart did that traitorous flip again. “You didn’t want me when I came to you.”

He climbed another step. “I did. I’ve wanted you since we were at the fort, when I saw how strong and brave you were.” Another step. “I saw how deeply you loved, how deeply you mourned, but you kept going anyway.” Another step. “And then you turned to me. So beautiful, so generous. You needed me, I needed you. And then you didn’t need me.” He halted halfway up the ladder.

She’d stopped breathing, waiting to hear what he’d say next. But he seemed to be waiting now to hear from her.

“I came to you and you were—you weren’t the same man I loved,” she told him. “You weren’t anyone I knew, anyone I wanted to know. I came to you carrying your child and you acted as if I was unwelcome in your life.”

“I was an idiot. And scared.” He continued climbing, and was close enough for her to touch. “I’d lost you once. All I could think of when I saw you, when I saw—” He nodded toward her belly. “I lost everything that I loved before. Everything. All I could think of was that I couldn’t live through that again. So I pushed you away.”

She swayed a bit. She’d known that was his fear, but she couldn’t give him assurances, not about the birth, not about three years down the road, not about anything but right now.

“I know how you felt. If anyone knows, I do. There are no guarantees, Trace. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or when you get back on Atrius. All I can promise is to love you.”

He climbed up on the roof and gripped her shoulders.

“I know that. I understand that. It doesn’t excuse me from being an idiot. I love you, Katherine. Can you forgive me?”

“I can, if you can give yourself to me, heart and soul, no matter what scares you. I want to be your partner, the one you turn to, the one you talk to. That’s the man I love. That’s the only thing I can accept.”

“I want you to be my wife no matter what the conditions. I want you by my side every day. I want to wake up with you and go to bed with you. I want to look across the room and feel my heart kick because you’re standing there.” He eased closer, sliding his hands up to the back of her head. “I want to watch my child grow inside you.”

Her gaze flickered at that, and he curved his fingers over her chin, drawing her gaze back to his.

“We’ve been through enough. We can get through anything else together.”

Tears sheened in her eyes. “I hope that’s true.”

He stroked his fingertips over the soft hair at her hairline. “We have a life to start, and decisions to make.” He stepped back, taking both her hands in his. “Do you want to stay in Louisiana, or do you want to go back to Texas?”

She laughed through the tears that choked her. “The entire time I was in Texas, I wanted to come back to Louisiana. Now, all I can think of is getting back.”

He chuckled and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “It’s too crowded in New Orleans now. As soon as the baby’s born and you’re strong enough, let’s go home to Texas.”

Epilogue

The screams from the bedroom twisted Trace’s gut. They remained strong, though, not weakening as Angelina’s had. Kit battled to bring their child into the world, and the midwife wouldn’t let him in the room. So he paced the hall outside the door. Hours had passed. Kit’s next scream, dying into a groan, was all he could take. He busted through the door to see her leaning against pillows propped on the headboard, hair loose and plastered to her head with sweat, her face red and damp, her nightgown shoved up, her knees bent as she bore down.

He was vaguely aware of the midwife shouting at him as he reached the side of the bed, curved his arm around her shoulders, felt the tension there as she strained to push the child out. Then the tightness eased and she rested her head against his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she panted.

“I can’t let you do this alone.”

The midwife reached up to dab Kit’s face with a washcloth. Trace took it from her and eased it over her forehead. She tilted her head back so he could wipe her mouth. He pressed his lips to her temple.

“You’re a strong girl.”

She huffed out a laugh. “But you have a strong child here. And big.”

“Not too big.” Alarmed, he met the midwife’s gaze.

“Your wife has good hips, Mr. Watson. She’s not having a problem. These things take time, and you should go—”

Before she could finish, he felt Kit’s muscles gathering, watched her jaw tense as she gripped her shins and bore down, air coming in a hiss through her teeth.

“Coming, coming,” the midwife murmured encouragingly. “Just a few more pushes and you’ll be holding your baby.”

Kit pulled in a breath as the next spasm hit her.

“There’s the head. Give a little more, Mrs. Watson.”

“Don’t have much…to give.” But she pushed, and with a sucking sound, his son slid into the world.

Kit laid back against Trace, panting hard as he held his breath, waiting for the baby’s cry.

“Big boy, your son,” the midwife murmured, her hands working briskly over the baby’s face. A lusty cry filled the room and Trace freed the air from his lungs as the midwife lay the child on Kit’s belly. Trace curved his hand over the baby’s dark-haired head and smiled at his exhausted wife.

“Welcome to the world, George Daniel Watson.” And he kissed Kit with all the hopes and dreams for their future.

About the Author

MJ Fredrick knows about chasing dreams. Twelve years after she completed her first novel, she signed her first publishing contract. Now she divides her days between teaching fourth grade students how to write and diving into her own writing, traveling everywhere in her mind, from Belize to Honduras to Africa to the past.

She’s a four-time Golden Heart finalist, and she won the 2009 Eppie Award with Hot Shot. Her romantic suspense titles include Hot Shot, Breaking Daylight, Beneath the Surface and Don’t Look Back. Her first book was a contemporary romance, Where There’s Smoke.

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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9054-3

Copyright © 2010 by MJ Fredrick

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