Page 109 of Texas Glory
Rawley’s black eyes widened in wonder. “You mean a dollar a week to keep?”
“To keep, to spend. It’s up to you. Just don’t bury it. If you want to save it, we’ll put it in the bank.”
Rawley’s brow furrowed, and he gnawed on his bottom lip. “My pa—”
“I talked with your pa last night. He said it’s fine if you want to stay here and work for me.”
Rawley nodded vigorously, his black hair slapping his forehead. “I do. I can work hard.”
“I know you can, son.” A sharp pain stabbed through Dallas’s chest. He hadn’t meant to call the boy that. His son was lying in the cold ground. He shoved the chair back and stood. “When you’ve finished eating, you go on upstairs and ask Mrs. Leigh to read to you. She likes reading out loud.”
In long strides, he left the house before he changed his mind about letting the boy stay. The boy couldn’t replace his son—no one, nothing could.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Standing at her bedroom window, Cordelia gazed at the land that looked as cold as her heart, as empty as the place inside her where a child had once grown.
Sometimes, she imagined that she could still feel him kicking. She would press her hand to her stomach, remembering all the times Dallas had laid his large hand beneath her navel and waited, his breath held, for the moment that would join the three of them. The tender smile he had bestowed upon her when the movement came. The warmth of his lips against her flesh as his mouth replaced his hand, kissing her gently, making her feel precious.
Precious because his dream was growing inside of her.
The tears surfaced and she forced them back. She was tired of crying, tired of the ache in her chest that she knew would never leave, tired of longing for the dreams that would never be.
With the baby, she’d held hope that Dallas would come to love her—if not for herself, for the fact that she had given him a son, through her he had acquired his dream.
But the hope had died with their son.
Dallas came to her room each evening to ask after her health, but he never came to her bed. He never held her. He no longer looked at her as though she hung the stars.
And she missed that most of all.
A knock sounded on her door, and she turned from the gray skies. “Come in.”
Dallas stepped into the room. “You’re not ready.”
She glanced at the red dress he’d brought her from town. How could she wear red when she was in mourning? Or did a child who had never lived receive no mourning period?
“I’m just not up to seeing people.”
“You’ve been in this room for two weeks, Dee. If you can’t walk down the stairs, I’ll carry you, but Christmas Eve has always been a special time for my family. It’s about the only tradition we have.” His Adam’s apple slowly slid up and down. “It’d mean a great deal to me if you’d join us—if not for me, then for Rawley. I’m not sure the boy even knows what Christmas is.”
Rawley. She thought of the way he sat as still as stone and listened, barely breathing, when she read to him. “I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes.”
He nodded and left the room. Quickly she washed up in the warm water he’d brought her earlier. She brushed her hair and swept it up off her neck. Then she donned the red dress—for Dallas—a small inconsequential gift to him because she knew he preferred her in red.
She stepped into the hallway, surprised to find Dallas leaning against the wall, his head bowed. She had noticed so little about him before, but she noticed everything now.
The shine on his boots, the red vest beneath his black jacket, a red that matched her gown, the black tie at his throat.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze. At one time, she knew he would have smiled at her. Now, he only looked at her with uncertainty, a woman to whom marriage vows had chained him, a woman who couldn’t fulfill his heart’s solitary desire.
He stepped away from the wall and crooked his elbow.
Always the gentleman … even now honoring his word when she could no longer honor hers.
She braved a smile and placed her arm through his. Slowly they descended the stairs, a wall of silence shimmering between them. How could a child that she had never held in her arms, patted on the head, or kissed good night leave such an aching chasm in her soul?
