Texas Gold
She’d changed, he decided. Faith was a woman, full grown. The promise of beauty she’d worn like a shimmering shawl of elegance had become a deep-seated, golden radiance that illuminated her as if sunshine itself dwelled within. Her eyes were intelligent, the small lines at the corners adding a certain maturity to their depth.
Her hair had lightened considerably, probably from hours spent in the sun, he thought. And she was lean, her youthful curves shaped by whatever work she’d been doing into sleek, feminine contours that drew his eye to the length of her slender form.
And then she was gone from sight, entering the dim kitchen, and he hastened to follow. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the shadowed interior, and watched as she walked unerringly to the stove against the far wall. A coffeepot sat on the back burner and she pulled it forward, then lifted a skillet from where it hung amid a collection of pots and pans, all neatly arrayed against the wall.
“Two eggs?” she asked, turning to him as one hand reached for a bowl of brown eggs on the kitchen counter. A heavy cupboard adorned one wall, glass doors above displaying dishes, solid doors beneath apparently concealing foodstuffs.
“Yes, two is fine. Three would be better, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I can afford to feed you.” Her hands were deft, unwrapping and slicing a loaf of bread and placing two pieces on the oven rack. The eggs were cracked and dropped with care into the skillet, to which she had added a scoop of butter from a dish on the table.
“Do you bake your own bread?” he asked, settling in a chair, stretching his legs full length and crossing his boots at the ankle before he placed his hat on the edge of the table.
“The nearest store is close to an hour’s ride away,” she said, “and they don’t carry a selection of bread. The ladies hereabouts bake their own.”
“And the butter?” he asked. “You know how to make that, too?”
“Any fool can learn how to lift a dasher and let it fall into a churn,” she told him. “The difficult part was finding a neighbor with a cow.”
“Why didn’t you buy one of your own?” he asked idly, his gaze fixed on the neat economy of her movements as she set the table before him, turned the eggs in the pan and rescued the toasted bread from the oven.
“A little matter of money,” she said. “Mine is in short supply.”
“Where do you get your milk, then?” he asked, intrigued by her methods of survival. She’d never been so complicated a woman during their marriage.
“I told you,” she said impatiently, serving his eggs and placing the toast neatly on the edge of his plate. “I barter for what I need. There are a couple of neighbors close enough to swap milk for eggs, or garden produce. Right now, I get my milk from Lin’s cow.” She looked up quickly to meet his gaze.
“Lin is Nicholas Garvey’s wife. I taught her how to milk her cow, and since I have chickens, and she hasn’t had time to develop much of a flock yet, I provide eggs for their table.”
Max nodded, picking up his fork. The woman was downright resourceful. “And how about your staples? You know, the everyday things you need in order to put food on the table.”
“I have a big flock of laying hens,” she said. “I carry eggs to town once a week, and I do sewing and mending for folks. Then there’s my garden.”
“You raise your own food?” The eggs were good—fresh, with bright golden yolks. And the bread was finely textured and browned with a delicate touch. He spread butter on the piece he’d torn off, and tasted it. “Someone taught you well,” he announced.
“Trial and error, for the most part. Though I had a neighbor, while I was still a squatter, who shared her yeast with me.”
“A squatter?” His face froze, as if he was stunned by the term.
“Yes, a squatter. Not a pretty word, is it, but it applied to me. I lived in a cabin in the woods on property not my own.”
“I know what a squatter is, Faith. But I hate it that you were reduced to that. Why didn’t you take money with you when you left? You knew the combination to my safe.”
“I had money,” she said stubbornly. “And I sold my mother’s jewelry.”
“I know. I bought it back,” he said quietly. “I traced you that far during the first week. And then you vanished from the face of the earth.” His fork touched the plate with a clatter, and he looked down at it in surprise, then lifted it to place it carefully beside his knife on the table.
“I thought you were dead, murdered perhaps, or killed in an accident, and someone had hidden your body. I was only too aware that the city was not a safe place for a woman alone.”
She sighed, and her voice held a note of regret. “I’m sorry. Truly I am, Max. I fear I wasn’t thinking rationally when I left. But there was the note.” Her pause was long as she awaited his reply, as if he might admit to the accusations her note had held, listing his sins, one by one.
She prodded him. “You did read my note, didn’t you?”
“Of course I read it. As a matter of fact, I’ve read it since, several times, and it still doesn’t make much sense. At any rate, I was never able to fully understand your reasons for walking away from me.”
“I’m a bit surprised that you even knew I was gone,” she said casually.
He glanced up, aching as he recognized the truth. “You had become like a shadow, Faith, barely causing a ripple in the household. I thought it best to leave you to grieve as you saw fit, I suppose. I certainly hadn’t helped the process by trying to comfort you with my presence.”
Her laughter was broken by a sound that he thought resembled a sob, and he felt a familiar sense of helplessness wash over him as she turned aside. “I don’t recall you even speaking of our son’s death, Max. Let alone offering me any comfort.”
Then she spun to face him, and her face was contorted by pain, her eyes awash with tears she could not hide. “Please. Just eat your breakfast and be on your way. We have nothing else to discuss as far as I’m concerned.”
“We haven’t even begun,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What about your business?” Her words were a taunt. “Surely it will fall into ruins without you there at least sixteen hours a day to keep it on the straight and narrow.”
The sound of her voice was shrill now, and if ever he’d seen Faith lose control of her emotions, it was at this moment. Even the tears she’d shed at their son’s funeral had not torn at his heart as her helpless sobs did now.
“I’ve left it in competent hands,” he said. “I’m on hiatus for a while.”
“Well, coming here wasn’t a smart move, Max. I don’t want you in my home,” she said harshly, backing toward an interior doorway. It led into a hallway behind her, and she seemed unaware of all else but the urgency to rid herself of his presence. “Go away,” she said, her voice rising. “Leave me alone.”
From the yard beyond the porch, a call rang out. “Faith! What’s wrong?”
Max turned to look out the screened door, his attention taken by the man who stalked up the steps onto the porch and then into the house. Tall and bronzed by the sun, he was dark-haired, with brilliant blue eyes and a demeanor that might have stricken a lesser man speechless.
Max had faced down wrongdoers in his life, but he was aware that in this case he might be considered to be at fault, and as such, didn’t have the proverbial leg to stand on. But there was always the truth, he decided.
“Faith is my wife,” he said quietly, halting the intruder’s headlong approach.
The man looked to where Faith leaned for support against the wooden framework of the door. “Faith?” he asked again, the query implicit in his voice. Hands clenched at either side, he was a formidable opponent, Max decided, one he’d just as soon not be forced to do battle with.
“Yes.” Her response was a bare whisper. “Max is my husband.”
“Has he threatened you?” the man asked quietly, alert to every nuance of expression, each breath that Max took.
Faith shook her head. “No, not the way you’re thinking, Nicholas.”
“Ah—so you’re the neighbor who has provided my wife with shelter,” Max said, allowing no inflection of sarcasm to enter his voice. He ached with the urge to oust the stranger from the kitchen, though it was a moot question whether or not his attempt would meet with success.
“Faith is living in a house that I own…so I suppose you could say that I’ve provided her with shelter.”
“I should probably thank you, then,” Max said nicely, rising in slow motion, lest the visitor take it in his head to consider him a threat.
“You should probably vacate the premises, is my guess.” Harsh and unyielding, the man stood aside and waved a hand toward the door. “I think you’ve gotten the message that my tenant doesn’t want your company.”
“Please, Max,” Faith said quietly. “Just leave. There’s nothing for you here.”
He hesitated, his eyes taking in the tearstained face, the slumping shoulders, and her arms wrapped in mute agony around her waist, as if she were attempting to soothe an ache that threatened to tear her asunder.
“I’ll leave, Faith. But I’m coming back. I have the right to speak with you. Hell, I have the legal right to haul you back to Boston with me, if I want to push it that far.”
The man she’d called Nicholas spoke up, his words icy, his demeanor threatening. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Mr. Hudson. Faith is among friends here.”
“Hudson?” Max felt the stab of pain at her denial of his name. “Her name is Faith McDowell. Mrs. Maxwell McDowell, to be precise. The day she married me, she lost any need for her maiden name.”
“Well, maybe she needs to see a lawyer about having it changed back legally.”
“No, Nicholas.” Faith stepped from the doorway. “Don’t make a fuss over it. It isn’t worth your while. I’m all right. I just want to be left alone.”
Max bowed his head for a moment, bitter disappointment washing through him. He’d never thought to effect such a confrontation with her. He’d hoped to speak about their problems, maybe solve some of the issues she’d apparently thought were important. And now he’d managed to lose even that small opportunity.
Staying would solve nothing.
“There’s a hotel in town,” Faith said quietly.
“I know. My baggage is there. I took a room yesterday.”
“There will be a train heading east tomorrow,” Faith told him. “If you want me to, I’ll come to town and see a lawyer with you, have him draw up paperwork to dissolve our marriage.”
Max shook his head. “No, I’ll go to the hotel and decide what has to be done. If you’ll call off your watchdog, that is.”
“Speaking of dogs, where’s Wolf?” Nicholas asked, a frown creasing his brow.
“There’s a female over on Clay Thomas’s place. Wolf has gone calling, I think.”
“Wolf? Your dog…” Max paused, envisioning a massive guard dog, and was suddenly thankful the absent creature had been stricken by the sudden desire for a mate.
“Yes, my dog is called Wolf.” Faith lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t return in a big hurry, Max. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Chapter Two
Morning brought an end to the restless night she’d endured, and her usual sunny nature was lacking as she stepped onto the back porch. Some critter had threatened her henhouse in the early morning hours, causing the dog to sound an alarm, and then had vanished when she’d peered from the window. Just in case, she decided, she’d be prepared for its reappearance, and she caught up her rifle as she opened the back door, hoping for a shot at the varmint.
And then stopped dead still. Max had returned, and was in the process of gaining Wolf’s loyalty. Her “watchdog” lay on his back, wiggling joyously as long, agile fingers scrubbed at his belly.
“Wolf!” She called his name harshly, aggravated beyond belief at the creature’s fickle behavior.
“He doesn’t seem endowed with any savage tendencies,” Max said, smiling up at her, coaxing the dog’s friendship with his knowing touch. And then he rose, and she lifted her free hand, forced to shade her eyes from the sun as she met his gaze once more. Her other hand held her rifle, its barrel pointed at the ground, its presence patently ignored by the man before her.
Wolf scrambled to all fours and then sat down with a flourish of his tail, as close to Max’s left boot as he could get. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes shone with mischief and he watched these two humans, as if seeking instructions for the next bit of fun on the agenda.
“I’d say he needs some training in order to qualify as a bona fide watchdog,” Max said dryly. “I didn’t even have to coax him with the bits of bacon I brought with me.” He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and removed his handkerchief, where remnants of what had probably been his breakfast lay wrapped.
Wolf transferred his attention to the bacon, one ear lifting, the other at half-mast, and Max laughed—an exuberant sound, Faith thought, as though he had not a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t, after all.
He’d ridden into the yard unchallenged, had dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching rail, and then made an instant ally of her much-touted watchdog. His glance was accusing. “You tried to make me believe your defender would eat me alive.”
“Obviously, I failed in his training,” she said quietly. “But—”
Her attention caught by a movement behind him, she shifted the rifle swiftly, her finger squeezing the trigger with a practiced movement, her aim on target.
At the sound of the blast the dog yelped and scampered to one side, but Max was immobile, his eyes narrowing as they remained trained on her face. “Was that a warning of sorts?” he asked.
She shrugged, as though the matter was of little importance. “I didn’t want my dog bit by a rattler.” And then she motioned with the rifle barrel toward the ground to Max’s left. The snake’s body twitched in its death throes, and she thought Max’s jaw tensed as he surveyed the remains.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he murmured, and then looked up at her. “Or was it only your dog you were concerned about?”
“I think you can figure that out for yourself,” she said, rather pleased by the effectiveness of her shooting skill.
“Well, at least your watchdog likes me,” he added, and then smiled slightly. “I remember—”
“I know,” she said quickly. Even the small pooch he’d brought home to her after their honeymoon had much preferred Max’s attention, given a choice.
He rose now and faced her, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her, skimming her clothing, lingering a bit as he examined her face, paying particular attention to her eyes. “You didn’t sleep well,” he said finally.
“I never sleep well when I’m in the midst of a problem.”
“Have you solved it with your tossing and turning?” he asked. He stepped across the expanse of ground between them and reached up to brush the lavender shadows beneath her eyes. She jerked away from the gentle touch. It was a less than subtle reminder of his effect on her.
“I don’t think you made any headway, did you?” he asked quietly.
“If you were a more agreeable man, it might be a simple matter,” she said, already aware that he was neither agreeable nor given to simple solutions. Not when it came to having his own way. Max was stubborn and possessive, and in this dispute she doubted he would give up easily.
“I consider myself a decent fellow,” he told her, his smile an obvious attempt to charm her into good humor. “The lawyer in town was very helpful. I suppose I should tell you that I stopped by to see him this morning.”
“Really? And what did he say that put you in such a good mood?”
“Oh, that I had the law behind me, should I decide to make demands on you.”
“Demands?” She felt her heart stutter a bit and then begin beating again, albeit at a more rapid pace than was its habit. “Are you thinking of taking me to bed, Max?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Did I say that?” And then he smiled, a grin that reminded her of Wolf at his friskiest. “Does the idea appeal to you?”
“You know better. I left you and my responsibilities as your wife a long time ago. So far as I’m concerned, our marriage is over. If you force the issue, you’ll have a fight on your hands.”
His grin evaporated, and his hands snagged her waist, drawing her toward him. “I don’t think you stand a chance of winning that sort of battle, sweetheart, even if I were to offer the challenge. You forget, I’m close to a hundred pounds heavier than you, almost a foot taller, and even though you’ve toughened up considerably over the past three years, I’m relatively certain I could have you in your bed in less than five minutes.”
His voice lowered as he held her captive and leaned to touch her lips with a fleeting kiss. A kiss she felt her hungry mouth return, lingering against his for a heart-shuddering moment before he eased away, looked down at her and smiled. “Not that I’m going to do such a thing.”
She thought his dark eyes grew shadowed then. “Mind you, I didn’t say I wouldn’t like to,” he amended. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that would give me more pleasure than to spend the whole day in your bedroom.”
“Really?” she asked, her voice splintered by a loss of breath, her lungs finding it difficult to draw in a full measure of air as she recovered from the brief meeting of lips that had managed to rock her equilibrium.
Her knees felt weak, her breath caught in her throat with a shudder, and she stepped past him without awaiting a reply and walked toward the chicken coop, where her hens awaited their morning meal. Doing the ordinary, simple tasks that were her daily routine seemed the route to follow right now. She’d given Max the response he wanted, had fallen on him like a woman deprived, and had managed to embarrass herself in the process.
Now she would feed the hens and gather the eggs and ignore his presence. Hopefully, the man would give up and be on his way. The thought of being involved in another confrontation with her neighbor made her cringe. She was a woman more than capable of tending her own affairs, and getting her benefactor and his wife involved in this mess was not to be considered.
“Can I help?” Max asked, following at her heels as she opened the gate to the chicken yard.
Leaning the rifle against the fence, she looked up at him. “If you don’t mind chicken poop on your shiny boots,” she said dryly. “There’s a pan just inside the door, hanging on the wall. You can be in charge of gathering eggs. Your best bet is to get the job done while I’m feeding the hens. You’ll save yourself getting all bloody that way. My hens don’t take to strangers.”
“That’s what you said about the dog,” he reminded her, glancing back to where Wolf lay in the shade, watching the ritual of tending the chickens take place.
“Wolf’s a traitor,” she said, dismissing the pooch with a wave of her hand.
“Don’t write him off too readily,” Max told her, opening the door to the coop. “Given the right circumstances, he’d be a loyal defender. He just sensed that I wasn’t a threat to you.”
She turned to look over her shoulder at him. “Aren’t you?” And then she dipped her pan into the barrel of feed and scattered it across the chicken yard, shaking the pan to call her flock.
“While you’re looking for something to do, you might dispose of that rattler,” she said, delighting in his look of distaste.
He’d done as she asked and then headed for the barn, where he put his energy into cleaning stalls, a chore Faith had been certain he would try to avoid, given the resultant boot cleaning involved once the work was complete. Her memories of Max involved knife-edged creases in his trousers and gleaming leather shoes and boots, plus a tendency to always appear well-groomed, even when he rose from her bed.
She, on the other hand, had usually felt like a well-used dishcloth, limp and still warm from his kisses and the profusion of caresses he was wont to include in their sessions in the darkest hours of the night. Quiet in his retreat, he’d left her yearning for his arms on those nights when he slept in his own room, and she’d never been able to bring herself to join him there.
Max called the shots. And she’d allowed it. Prim and uneasy with the marriage relationship, unwilling to approach him with any degree of eagerness, she’d been what her mother-in-law had been prone to speak of as “an ideal wife, who knows her place in her husband’s life and in society.”
And wasn’t that the saddest excuse for marriage she’d ever heard. Yet it had been, for a while, an experience she’d cherished.
She shivered, forking hay from the loft, where the temperature hovered above sizzling and pretty close to sweltering. The man was a piece of work, trying to fit himself into her life, as if he had a right.
But after all, hadn’t the lawyer in town told him as much? Faith leaned on the pitchfork for a moment, wondering what else the lawyer had had to say during that early morning chat. Surely Max had not mentioned his inclination to claim his marital rights. If he had, and if she were to ever face Mr. Handle in town, it would be a most humiliating experience. Probably the discussion had concerned Max’s right to drag her back to Boston with him.
It could be done, of that she was certain. Women were at the bottom of the heap when it came to surviving conflict in the relationship between husband and wife.
“You going to stay up there all day?” Max called from the bottom of the ladder.
She jerked, almost dropping the pitchfork on top of him, and then lost her balance. Tossing the sharp-tined weapon aside, she fell back, lying flat, looking upward toward the barn ceiling. Truly not one of her better moments, she decided, rolling to her knees and rising to stand on the uneven bed of hay.
“Are you all right?” Max’s head appeared through the hole in the floor, followed by his shoulders as he lifted himself from the ladder to stand before her. “Here, let me give you a hand.” He reached to steady her, and laughed outright.
“Your hair is a mess,” he said, plucking wisps of hay from her braid and brushing bits and pieces from her sweaty brow. The movement of his hand slowed, then ceased altogether, and in a hushed moment, he touched her lips with his index finger.
“Faith.” It was a whisper of sound, and she glared up at him, unwilling to be so readily coaxed by his gentle approach.
“I’m fine. Go on down. I’ll toss enough hay down for the next couple of weeks and then pile it in the corner. It saves me climbing into the loft more than twice a month.”
“It’s nice up here,” he said, looking off into the shadows, where a bird had built a nest and was busily fluttering on the edge, feeding her young. “If it wasn’t so blasted hot, I’d enjoy lying back in the hay and talking for a while.”
“You’d be talking to yourself,” Faith said, lifting her pitchfork from the hay and stabbing it into the pile she’d so recently occupied. Hay fell through the opening, scattering on the barn floor beneath, and she lifted another layer, sending it after the first.
A large, lean hand took the fork from her, ignoring her tightened grip on the handle. “Let me do that,” Max said. “How much do you want below?”
She stepped back, giving him the necessary room, and drew in a deep breath. He was pushing her, and she didn’t like it. Edging ever closer in a game she had no intention of joining. “Enough to fill the far corner of the aisle, next to the last stall,” she said.
“All right.” Obligingly, he tossed hay through the opening and then halted, stepping back to allow her passage to the ladder. “After you,” he said cheerfully.
She climbed down swiftly, pleased that he hadn’t preceded her, aware that her legs were exposed as she held her skirt high enough to keep it from tangling around her feet on the ladder rungs. Gaining the floor, she looked up and reached for the pitchfork.
“Let me,” she said. “I’ll move it out of the aisle.”