Rogue in Texas Read online

  LORRAINE HEATH

  A Rogue in Texas

  For Nana,

  with love

  Contents

  1

  Grayson Rhodes’ father had always warned him that he would…

  2

  The awful din started before dawn greeted the day—the irritating…

  3

  The next morning Grayson awoke when the first stream of…

  4

  Bloody damned hell!

  5

  “Gray! Gray! You gotta get up. Hurry!”

  6

  “Did you know that if a snapping turtle bites you,…

  7

  “You want to make sure you cover the roots,” a…

  8

  Kissing Abbie had been a mistake. Indulgences always came at…

  9

  Grayson found Abbie in the family garden, jerking carrots from…

  10

  Grayson drew the lumbering wagon to a halt. He would…

  11

  Abbie lay in bed, listening to the night, listening to…

  12

  Grayson shifted the heavy sack off his shoulder as Abbie…

  13

  Guiding the rumbling wagon over the rough road, Grayson listened…

  14

  Grayson stepped through the swinging doors of the saloon. Several…

  15

  Grayson waited until he was certain everyone had left the…

  16

  With her arms wrapped around her knees, Abbie rocked back…

  17

  “The responsibilities you owe one person don’t stop because you…

  18

  Why today? Why today? Why today?

  19

  “Abbie, don’t move.”

  Epilogue

  “Grayson?”

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  July, 1865

  Grayson Rhodes’ father had always warned him that he would burn in hell, but he had never expected to arrive at the damnable place while he was still alive.

  Sitting in the rear of the wagon, Grayson suffered through the sweltering heat that clung to his body. Flies and gnats joyfully buzzed around his ears as the vehicle bounced over the rough road. He would have thought the seven men crowded into the abominable mode of transportation would have kept the damn thing on an even keel. How the man to his left—Christian Montgomery—could sleep through the incessant jostling was beyond Grayson’s comprehension, but he had to admire Kit’s ability to do so.

  Unlike his traveling companions, Grayson had long ago given up any pretense at being a gentleman. He’d tossed his cravat aside, removed his jacket, loosened the top buttons on his white linen shirt, and rolled his starched cuffs past his elbows. But none of his efforts diminished the suffocating heat.

  With his sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his brow. He could do nothing to prevent the beads trickling down his back.

  He sliced his narrowed gaze to Benjamin P. Winslow, who sat on the bench seat beside the driver. The rotund man had convinced the fathers of every man in the wagon into paying him five hundred pounds to bring their wayward sons to Texas and make men of them.

  Grayson shifted his weight, wincing as a splinter jabbed his backside. If he ever had occasion to travel by coach again, he would not take its comforts for granted.

  And although he was beginning to have doubts that fortune truly awaited him here, after this excursion into hell, he knew he now had a chance to gain with hard work what his father could not bequeath him—respect.

  “What do you make of that?” a deep voice grumbled.

  Grayson cut a quick glance to Harrison Bainbridge, second son of the Earl of Lambourne, before gazing in the distance. Heat rose from the earth, creating walls of shimmering white flames. Beyond them, shadows of two or three buildings hovered.

  “Satan’s throne, perhaps?” Grayson suggested drolly.

  Harry flashed the easy grin for which he was famous. “I’ll wager five pounds that it’s an inn, and we’ll finally have beds in which to sleep.”

  “I would take you up on it, but you’ve already managed to swindle me out of the two shillings I had jingling within my pockets.”

  “I’ll be glad to mark you down for it. I know you’re good for it—or you will be, once we’ve reached our destination.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Kit asked.

  Grayson snapped his attention to the man sitting beside him. “I thought you were asleep.”

  Kit gave him a laconic smile, his pale blue eyes effectively shielding the windows to his soul. More than one woman had referred to them as eyes of the devil after she’d succumbed to his infamous charms. “I’ve merely been pondering our situation and trying to remember what possessed us to climb into this wagon once we’d docked at Galveston.”

  “Winslow’s promise of fortune had us eagerly clambering aboard,” Grayson reminded him. “The notion of becoming men of means in our own right and rubbing our father’s noses into it appealed to us.”

  “An appeal that lessens as each day progresses. Perhaps we should consider jumping ship, as it were, and heading back to Galveston. I’m certain we could find a gaming hall or two.” He smiled in anticipation. “Along with some feminine entertainment.”

  “And abandon fortune?” Grayson asked. “I think not.”

  The driver guided the wagon onto a narrower, rougher dirt road than the one upon which they’d been traveling. On one side of the road, dark green cotton stalks reached toward the sun. Grayson had seen the crops growing in a few fields along the route. The abundance of growth in Texas surprised him.

  As the wagon continued on, he was able to distinguish the shapes of women and children toiling between the neatly planted rows. They ceased their labors and began walking through the fields toward the road, toward the wagon, falling into step behind it.

  “Winslow, shouldn’t we offer them a ride?” Kit called out.

  “It’s not much farther,” Winslow assured him.

  When they neared what Grayson had taken for Satan’s throne, he realized it was nothing more than a barn. A simple clapboard house stood nearby, blue gingham curtains fluttering through the open windows. He doubted extra beds awaited them here. He cursed himself for not taking Harry up on his wager.

  The driver drew the team of horses to a halt. The wagon rocked as Winslow lifted his portly body from the bench seat and turned, tottering as though he were a child’s toy until he gained his balance. His smile broad, his black eyes gleaming beneath his black top hat, he folded his fingers around the lapels of his brown wool tailcoat. “Gentlemen, we have arrived!”

  Grayson felt as though he’d just stepped into the middle of a boxing ring with his eyes closed. Apparently, he was not the only one. His traveling companions’ mouths went agape and their eyes bulged. Harry struggled to his knees. “Exactly where have we arrived?”

  “To the fields where you’ll work.”

  “Are you telling us that all this time when you assured us that fortune awaited us, you were talking about our working in bloody fields?”

  “Indeed I am, lad.”

  “Bloody hell, who would have thought he meant for us to become common field laborers?” Harry demanded.

  “Obviously, none of us,” Kit said. “Or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Come on, lads, hoist yourselves out of the wagon. The ladies are waiting!” Winslow exclaimed.

  Against his better judgment, Grayson climbed out, his booted feet hitting the ground and creating a cloud of dust. His aching body protested the movement. He longed for a soft bed and an even softer woman. Unfortunately, he doubted either was in supply at this rut in the road. />
  An awkward silence descended as the women gathered before them, many as barefoot as the children peering around their threadbare skirts. Some women attempted hesitant smiles, but their wary gazes revealed their emotions more clearly. Grayson was beginning to understand how a fox felt near the end of the hunt.

  A woman with hair the shade of a full moon captured his attention. She looked worn, as though whatever dreams she might have once held had been turned under the soil and never bloomed.

  She stepped toward him, so close that he was forced to look down to meet her gaze. He saw her body twitch as though she suddenly realized she stood closer than she’d intended, but to step back now would reveal her mistake. She angled her chin in defiance, and he somehow knew she was the kind of woman who would stand her ground rather than hop back out of harm’s way. Her violet eyes challenged him.

  “Let me see your hands,” she demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She grabbed his wrist, turned his hand up, and placed her palm against his. Her roughened hand was callused, dry, and cracked, leaving him completely astonished by the jolt of warmth her touch sent spiraling through him. He jerked his gaze from her work-worn hand to her provocative eyes and saw bewilderment swirling within the violet depths.

  She parted her lips slightly, almost breathlessly, and he was hit with the realization that he had not drawn a breath since she’d touched him. What was it about her—

  She dropped his hand and stepped back as though she couldn’t remember why she’d grabbed it to begin with. Her caress possessed nothing to entice a man, and yet he experienced a keen sense of loss now that their contact had been severed. He closed his hand as though by doing so, he could recapture her touch.

  She gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. The bewilderment retreated and the challenge returned in full force, more intriguing than before. She spun on her heel and faced Winslow. “What in the hell did you think you were doing, bringing these men here?”

  “I brought them so they might have the opportunity to learn a trade, to put in an honest day’s labor—”

  “His hand feels like satin. It’ll be bleeding before noon—”

  “We don’t have any choice, Abbie,” another young woman said. Her hair was the same flaxen shade, but her blue eyes contained none of the other’s fury. She placed her hand on Abbie’s shoulder, a comforting gesture that spoke of more than friendship. Grayson had often seen Kit do the same thing with his brother. More than their similar features, the strong bond that vibrated between them told him they were sisters.

  “We’ve got a little over a month before that cotton is ready to be harvested,” the other woman continued softly. “We all agreed to let Mr. Winslow bring men to work the fields.”

  Abbie flung her hand out in a circle. “But look at them, Elizabeth. They’ve never worked in fields from dawn until dusk—”

  “Neither did I before the war. They can learn. Their hands will toughen up,” Elizabeth assured her.

  “Maybe. If they stay long enough.”

  “Perhaps if we gave them a Texas welcome instead of acting like a belligerent Yankee—”

  “I wasn’t acting like a belligerent Yankee,” Abbie retorted.

  Grayson found her blush fascinating. He’d never known a woman’s cheeks to burn so brightly, but then the women he’d known had blushed becomingly on demand in order to entice a man, never to reveal their anger or absolute embarrassment.

  “You weren’t welcoming either.”

  “You can’t honestly tell me they are what you were expecting,” Abbie said.

  “No, but from the look on their faces, we weren’t exactly what they were expecting either.”

  Turning her attention toward the fields, Abbie folded her arms beneath her breasts. Small breasts. Not at all what Grayson favored, yet he found his gaze lingering where it shouldn’t, grateful it had when she heaved a deep sigh.

  “Now that they’re here, I don’t know that John would want foreigners working his land,” Abbie said.

  “I don’t see that we’ve got a choice,” Elizabeth replied. “We lost too many men during the war, and no telling when those that survived will make it home.”

  Grayson saw the muscles in Abbie’s jaw tighten before she gave a brusque nod. Obviously, she begrudgingly accepted that the battle was lost. He found it oddly appealing that she did not accept defeat easily.

  “We agreed to room and board one apiece. The sun will be setting soon so we might as well take them home and let them get settled. Which one do you want?” Elizabeth asked.

  Abbie shook her head. “I’ll just take whatever’s left.” Turning, she ambled toward the house. Three children—two boys and a girl—rushed to catch up with her.

  With an overly bright smile, Elizabeth faced Grayson and his companions. “Gentlemen, I’m Elizabeth Fairfield. We’re happy you’re here to work. I suppose we could put everyone’s name in a hat and draw to see who stays where.”

  “Excellent idea,” Winslow said. “I’m certain once everyone gets to know each other that all will work out splendidly.”

  “Johnny!” Elizabeth yelled, and the taller boy following Abbie stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Bring me some paper and a pencil.”

  The boy gave a quick nod and raced ahead to the house.

  Grayson shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and sauntered to the fields. For as far as he could see, the crops blanketed the earth. Crouching, he scooped up a handful of the rich, black soil. He allowed it to sift through his fingers. It carried the weight of permanence, the promise of wealth.

  In England, immense deference was given to a landowner, even if he held no title. Grayson knew he would never inherit a title. But here land burst forth with abundance, stretching for miles, disappearing beyond the horizon. He simply had to determine the easiest, most profitable way to obtain the land. Then, perhaps, he would be able to put his painful shortcomings behind him.

  He paid no attention to the droning of Elizabeth Fairchild’s voice as she called out each of his companion’s names. The fate of others held no interest for him. But the land was another matter. It fascinated him. He heard the tread of heavy footsteps and slowly unfolded his body.

  “Bad luck, Gray. You got the shrew,” Harry announced heartily.

  “I’ll trade with you,” Kit offered.

  “I’ve no desire to trade.”

  “Why in the bloody hell not?” Kit asked. “The woman took an obvious dislike to you.”

  “She took a dislike to all of us, but I was left with the distinct impression that this land belongs to her.”

  “What difference does that make?” Harry asked.

  “Probably none, but I’m simply contemplating possibilities.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to share those possibilities?” Kit asked.

  Grayson met his gaze directly. “No.”

  Kit nodded, and Grayson knew he had taken no offense at his desire to hold his own counsel. In the distance, the sun began to sink beyond the horizon.

  “I must confess that I find the sunsets here spectacular,” Kit murmured.

  Grayson agreed, but he didn’t possess Kit’s penchant for the artistic so he kept his appreciation safely locked away with all the other aspects of himself that might render him vulnerable.

  Harry nudged his shoulder. “Do you honestly believe our fathers had any idea what Winslow had in store for us?”

  Grayson watched the fiery flames of the retreating sun send streamers of brilliant oranges and reds across the darkening azure sky. “I have no doubt that they knew exactly what he had in mind—enticing us straight into the bowels of hell.”

  Grayson stood within the doorway, taking in his new residence. The house was small, more like a cottage. The children sat at an oaken table: the two boys on one side, the girl across from them. He assumed the three doors on the other side of this room led into bedrooms. Rugs that looked more like rags were spread about the rough-hewn floor
. Two wing-backed chairs of worn material rested near the hearth. A rolltop desk was pressed against one wall.

  Simplicity in everything. A sturdiness. A permanence. Above all else a cleanliness, and an atmosphere of warmth that had nothing to do with the hot Texas weather.

  Against his will, his gaze came to rest on the woman kneeling before the lazy fire burning within the hearth. Even from this angle, she intrigued him.

  Abigail Westland stared at the stew as the thick broth bubbled and burst. Why had she agreed to this insane scheme to bring Englishmen here to work the fields?

  The men who had clambered from the wagon could not replace the husbands who had toiled from dawn until dusk. Their skin wasn’t leathery from years of fighting nature. They weren’t broad in the chest, with arms that stretched the seams on their shirts. Half of them had faces that would no doubt blister by the end of a day working in the field.

  More often than not, she was exhausted by nightfall. Tending to a man and his needs was one burden she had no desire to carry.

  The soft knock on the wall gave her a start. She twisted around. A tall man stood in the doorway, his hair the color of wheat. Her heart sped up with the realization that he was the one whose hand she had held, the one whose hand had made her wonder what it would feel like to be caressed with something that held as much strength as softness. The strength had surprised her. The silkiness had unsettled her as much as her wayward thoughts, thoughts she’d never entertained with her husband.

  She rubbed her hand briskly on her apron, trying to erase the memory. Dear Lord, she should have made her selection when Elizabeth gave her the chance—anyone but him.