Page 4

S wearing 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 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 in no 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, threadbare jacket, 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, curling back its lips and deepening its growl.

Moving quickly, the boy dipped down, swung around, and pointed a rifle at Austin. Austin 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 gunbelt.

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 saw no fields that needed tending or cattle that needed watching.

The aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafted 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 cautions, 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 glanced to his left and spotted a hen house and a three-sided wooden structure that offered protection to a milk cow. He found that odd since the property had a huge barn.

He heaved the ax down into the wood, wondering if he was wasting his time traveling to the capital city.

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 eve running the width of the house. The dog strolled over, stretched, yawned, and worked its way to the ground near Austin’s feet.

“Changed your mind about me, did you?”

Lifting its head, the dog released a small whine before settling back into place.

Austin was sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep.

Instead, he looked toward the horizon where the sun was gradually sinking behind the trees.

While serving his time, he’d hated to see the sun go down.

He had despised the night. Loneliness had always accompanied the darkness.

“Here’s your meal,” the boy said from behind him.

Austin glanced over his shoulder, his outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination.

The air backing up in his lungs, he slowly brought himself to his feet.

The britches and bare feet were the same, but everything else had changed.

The crumpled hat and shabby jacket were gone. So was the boy.

“What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asked.

Austin could have named a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinched the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat, they glittered a tawny gold.

He tore his Stetson from his head and backed up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”

A tentative smile played across her lips. “It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides no one’s usually around to notice.”

“What about your family?”

A wealth of sadness plunged into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.”

So they were around as she’d told him, but not in a position to help her. She extended the bowl toward him.

“Here. Take it.”

He reached for the offering, his roughened fingers touching hers.

They both jerked away, then scrambled to recapture the bowl, their heads knocking together.

Cursing as pain ricocheted through his head, Austin snaked out his hand and snatched the bowl, effectively halting its descent.

The stew sloshed over the sides, burning the inside of his thumb.

“Damn!” He shifted the bowl to his other hand and pressed his thumb against his mouth.

He peered at the woman. Her eyes had grown wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron.

He remembered the many times Houston had scolded him for swearing in front of Amelia, and he felt the heat suffuse his face.

“My apologies for the swearing,” he offered.

She shook her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”

Before he could stop her, she’d disappeared into the house. Austin dropped onto the porch, wondering if he had a fever. How could he have possibly mistaken that tiny slip of a woman for a boy?

He thought if he pressed her flush against him, the top of her head would fit against the center of his chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminded him of the fine china Dee now set on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.

He saw a flash of dung colored britches just before the woman knelt in front of him. She took his hand without asking and pressed a damp cloth to the red area. “I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”

Her voice was as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again he wondered how he had mistaken her for a boy.

Lightly, her hand held his, but he still felt the calluses across her palm.

Her fingernails were short, chipped in a place or two, but clean.

And her touch was the sweetest thing he’d known in five years.