Page 144 of Texas Glory
She released her hold on his hand and his gaze as she eased away from him. “You should eat. You earned it.”
He gave a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sat on the bottom step of the porch and put one foot on top of the other. She had the cutest toes he’d ever seen. The second toe was crooked and pointed toward the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.
She hit her thigh. “Come here, Digger.” The dog trotted over and nestled his head in her lap. With doleful eyes he looked at Austin. “Digger?” Austin asked.
She buried her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”
“Austin. Austin Leigh.”
“I thought that’s where you were headed.”
“It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”
“Must get confusing.”
“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty years.” He returned his attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling at women had brought such pleasures.
“I’m Loree Grant.”
“I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Grant.” He scraped the last of the stew from his bowl.
“Do you want more stew?” she asked.
“If you’ve got some to spare.”
She rose, took his bowl, and walked into the house. A wave of dizziness assaulted Austin. He grabbed the edge of the porch and breathed deeply.
“Are you all right?”
He glanced over his shoulder. She stood uncertainly on the porch, the bowl of fresh stew in her hand. He bought himself to his feet, afraid what he’d already eaten wasn’t going to stay put. “Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering … with night closing in … if you’d mind if I bedded down in your barn.”
Wariness flitted through her golden eyes, but she gave him a jerky nod.
“ ’Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns if it’ll help you feel safer. I won’t need them tonight. In the morning before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.”
He strode toward Black Thunder, hoping he could get the horse settled before he collapsed from exhaustion.
He didn’t have the eyes of a killer. Loree repeated that thought like a comforting litany as she sat cross-legged on her bed, the loaded rifle resting across her lap, her gaze trained on the door.
Five years ago, she’d looked into the eyes of a killer. She knew them to be ruthless and cold. Austin Leigh’s eyes were neither. She shifted her attention to the fire burning in the hearth. In the center, where the heat burned the hottest, the writhing blue flames reflected the color of his eyes. Eyes that mirrored sorrow and pain. She wondered if any of the creases that fanned out from the corners of his eyes had been carved by laughter.
Hearing thunder rumble in the distance, she hoped the storm would hold off until he’d left, but she thought it unlikely. The clock on the mantel had only just struck midnight.
The barn roof had more holes than the night sky had stars. Still, it would offer him more protection than the trees. And he probably had a slicker. All cowboys did, and he certainly looked to be a cowboy. Tall and rangy with a loose-jointed walk that spoke of no hurry to be anywhere.
The rain began to pelt the roof with a steady staccato beat. She cringed. The nights were still cool, but he hadn’t asked for additional blankets or a pillow, and he couldn’t build a fire inside the barn. She cursed under her breath. He wasn’t her worry. He was a murderer, for God’s sake.
If only he had the eyes ofamurderer. Then she could stop worrying about him and worry more about herself. If only his eyes hadn’t heldableakness as he’d spoken of prison. She wondered whom he had killed. If he’d had good reason to murder someone.
She tightened her fingers around the rifle. Did any reason justify murder? She had asked herself that question countless times since the night the killer had swooped down on them. The answer always eluded her. Or perhaps only the answer she wanted eluded her.
She slid off the bed and walked to her hope chest. She knelt before it and set the rifle on the floor beside her. She ran her hand over the cedar that her father had sanded and varnished toashine for her fourteenth birthday. For three years she had carefully folded and placed her dreams inside … until the night when the killer had dragged her to the barn. Her dreams had died that night, along with her mother, her father, and her brother.
The rain pounded harder. The wind scraped the tree branches across the windows. The thunder roared.
She lifted the lid on the chest for the first time since that fateful night. Forgotten dreams beckoned her. She trailed her fingers over the soft flannel of a nightgown. She had wanted to feel delicate on her wedding night, so she had embroidered flowers down the front and around the cuffs. She had tatted the edges of her linens and sewn a birthing gown for a child that she now knew would never be.
The killer had charged into her life with the force of a tornado. He had stolen everything, and when she’d tried to regain a measure of what he’d taken—he had delivered his final vengeance. With one laugh, one hideous laugh that had echoed through the night, he had shattered her soul.
