Page 142 of Texas Glory
Shaking his head, he gazed at the canopy of stars. His daughter would be walking by the time Austin came home. His son would be herding cattle. His wife would be building a theater in Leighton … and anything else that struck her fancy.
Drawing Dee more closely against him, falling into the depths of her dark gaze, he allowed himself to be lured into the glory of her love.
1887
Swearing viciously, Austin glared at the jagged cut on the underside of Black Thunder’s hoof. He released the horse’s foreleg, unfolded his aching body, and jerked his dusty black Stetson from his head. Exhausted, resenting the dirt working its way into every crease of his body, he stood beneath the April sun feeling as though he’d stepped into the middle of August.
Using the sleeve of his cambric shirt, he wiped the sweat beading his brow, grimacing as pain erupted across his back—from the middle of his left shoulder to just below his ribs. He had expected the gash he’d received during the brawl with Duncan McQueen to have healed by now, but he supposed riding all day, late into the night, and sleeping on the ground hadn’t been the best treatment for the wound. When he had ridden out of Leighton several days before, he hadn’t considered that he’d have no way to clean or tend the injury. Only one thought had preyed on his mind: the city of Austin might hold the key that would lead him to Boyd’s killer, the man whose guilt would prove Austin’s innocence.
Slipping his fingers into the pocket of his vest, he pulled out the map Dallas had given him. Wearily he studied the lines that marked the start of his journey and his final destination. He stuffed the wrinkled paper back into his pocket. He wouldn’t reach the town tonight.
Settling his hat low over his brow, he sighed heavily. He was no in mood to walk, but the stallion’s injury left him no choice. Gazing toward the distance, he saw smoke spiraling up through the trees. He threaded the reins through his fingers and trudged into the woods. Shafts of sunlight and lengthening shadows wove through the branches, offering him some respite from the damnable heat. With a sense of loss, he remembered a time when he would have appreciated the simple beauty surrounding him. Now he just wanted to get to where he was going.
He heard an occasional thwack as though someone were splitting wood. With the abundance of trees and bushes, he didn’t imagine anyone had to depend on cow chips for a fire.
A wide clearing opened up before him. Lacy white curtains billowed through the open windows of a small white clapboard house. The weathered door stood ajar. Near the house a scrawny boy wearing a battered hat and worn britches struggled to chop the wood. A large dog napped beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The varying hues of his brown and white fur reminded Austin of a patchwork quilt. As Austin cautiously approached, the dog snapped open its eyes, snarled, and rose slowly to its full height. Austin had often seen Dallas bring himself to his feet in much the same manner, and he knew it didn’t bode well for the person snared within the dog’s silver gaze. The animal curled back its lips back and deepened its growl.
Moving quickly, the boy dipped down, swung around, and pointed a rifle at Austin. He threw his hands in the air. “Whoa! I’m not looking for trouble.”
“What are you lookin’ for?”
“Austin. How far is it from here?”
“Half a day’s ride on a good horse.” The boy angled his head, the rumpled brim of his hat casting shadows over his face. “Your horse looks to be favoring his right leg.”
The boy’s insight caught Austin off guard, although he certainly admired it. “Yep. He cut his hoof on a rock. Your folks around?”
The boy gave a brisk nod. “And my brother. I’d feel a sight better if you’d take off the gun.”
Austin untied the strip of leather at his thigh and slowly unbuckled the gun belt. Cautiously removing the holster, he laid the weapon on the ground, his gaze circling the area. He wondered where the rest of the family was working. He could see no fields that needed tending or cattle that needed watching. He saw the boy’s fingers tighten their hold on the rifle. He smelled the aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafting through the open door of the house. “Something sure smells good.”
“Son-of-a-gun stew.”
“Think you could sneak me a bowl if I finish chopping that wood for you?”
The boy shifted his gaze to the wood scattered around an old tree stump, then looked back at Austin. “What’s your business in Austin?”
“Looking for someone.”
“You a lawman?”
“Nope. My horse is hurt. I’ve been walking longer than I care to think about. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. I can chop that wood twice as fast as you can, and I’m willing to do it for one bowl of stew. Then I’ll be on my way.”
Slowly, the boy relaxed his fingers and lowered the rifle. “Sounds like a fair trade.”
Rolling his sleeves past his elbows, Austin strode to the tree stump. Ignoring the snarling dog that lumbered in for a closer inspection of his boots, Austin picked up the ax, hefted a log onto the stump, and slammed the ax into the dry wood. He stifled a moan as fiery pain burst across his back. When he reached his destination, his first order of business would be to find a doctor.
“I’m gonna take your gun,” the boy said hesitantly. “And your rifle.”
“Fine. There’s a Bowie knife in the saddlebags.” He didn’t begrudge the boy his caution, but he longed for the absolute trust he’d once taken for granted. Hearing the boy’s bare feet fall softly over the ground as he walked to the house, Austin glanced over his shoulder. The boy had grabbed his saddlebags as well!
Austin glared at the dog. “Your master ain’t too trusting, is he?”
The dog barked. Austin heaved the ax down into the wood, wondering if he was wasting his time traveling to the capital city. For all he knew, he could just be spitting in a high wind. If he had any sense, he’d head home and try to rebuild a life that never should have been torn down.
But stubborn pride wouldn’t allow him the luxury of turning back. His family believed he was innocent. Becky knew he was innocent. But the doubts would forever linger in everyone else’s minds.
When he had split and stacked enough wood to last the family a week, he ambled to the house, dropped to the porch, and leaned against the beam that supported the eave running the width of the house. The dog strolled over, stretched, yawned, and worked its way to the ground near Austin’s feet.
