“Nothing. I … I washed your clothes this morning and then it occurred to me that you wouldn’t have anything to wear. Since your fever broke near dawn, I thought you might want a bath.” She slapped her trembling hand against the wooden tub to emphasize her good intentions. She held up his saddlebag. “I was looking to see if you had some clean clothes.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I do.”
“Oh, good.” She shoved herself to her feet and set the saddlebag on the foot of the bed, certain he wouldn’t appreciate knowing what she’d found. “Do you feel strong enough to manage on your own?”
“I’m willing to give it a try.”
“I’ll start cooking breakfast.”
Austin watched the woman scurry from the room like a frightened rabbit. He didn’t have anything in his possession worth stealing, and even if he did, he didn’t think Loree Grant was one to steal. In spite of her wariness, she had been generous toward him—offering him food, shelter, and aid when she could just as easily have left him to suffer alone. Still, he’d had little privacy in the past few years and he coveted it now.
He felt like a man who had downed three bottles of cheap whiskey without taking a breath in between. He rolled to a sitting position, every muscle and bone he possessed protesting the movement. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a moment to catch his breath. His gaze fell on his boots—polished to a shine—standing at attention beside the rocking chair. Good Lord, how was he going to pay the woman back for all she’d done since his arrival?
He shoved himself to his feet. A wave of weakness assailed him and he closed his eyes, willing himself to stand.
With the movements of an old man who had been thrown off a horse one too many times, he padded to the bathtub. The woman thought of everything. He sank into the heavenly warmth, letting it soak days of dirt and grime from his body. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. Moments woven through the night filled his mind like an elaborate tapestry. Soft touches over his fevered brow. Cool water gliding down his scorched throat. A gentle voice offering reassurance.
And tears. His tears. He groaned. Whatever had possessed him to ask the woman about Becky? Bowing his head, he dug his fingers into the sides of the tub. Thoughts of Becky had filled his mind, his heart from the first moment his gaze had fallen upon her seven years before. She was as much a part of him as his name.
A name that might have cost him her love.
Using the hard lye soap, he scrubbed unmercifully at his face and body and washed his hair. The pain still throbbed through his back, but not nearly as much as it had the day before. He’d been a fool to leave home without seeing that it was properly tended by a physician, but then he seemed to have gained a knack for being a fool.
He brought himself to his feet and dried off. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked to the bed and removed his shaving equipment from his saddlebag. He ambled to the woman’s dresser and studied his reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t really taken the time to look at himself since he’d left prison. He was suddenly hit with the hard realization that he had aged more than either of his brothers. Deep crevices fanned out from the corners of his eyes. The wind, rain, and sun had worked together to wear away, shape, and mold the face of a boy into the hardened visage of a man. He hardly recognized himself and he missed the laughing blue eyes that had always looked back at him.
He dropped his chin to his chest and released a heavy sigh. Of all the things that had changed, he hated most of all that he had changed—inside and out. He was as much a stranger to himself as he was to the woman preparing him breakfast.
Moving her hairbrush, comb, and hand mirror aside, he set his shaving box on the dresser. Using the warm water she’d left in the bowl, he stirred up some lather for his face, his gaze lighting upon all the little gewgaws scattered over her dresser. He stopped stirring and trailed his fingers over a smooth wooden box. Embedded in the wood was a silhouette of a violin. He shifted his gaze to the door. She’d pried into his belongings …
Gingerly he touched the lid of the box and slowly lifted it. Music tinkled out. He slammed the lid closed. A music box.
Shaking his head, Austin set about shaving several days growth of beard from his face. Then he pulled fresh clothes from his saddlebags, stepped into his trousers, and pulled on his boots. Grabbing his shirt and a towel, he walked to the door and quietly opened it.
The aromas of freshly baked biscuits and brewed coffee wafted toward him. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Loree stir something in a pot on the cast iron stove. She wore a dress the shade of daisies and the same white apron she’d worn the day before cinched at her waist. Her narrow hips swayed in a circular motion as though following the path of the spoon. The lilt of her soft voice filled the room with a song.
“What are you singing?”
She spun around, her eyes wide, her hand pressed just below her throat. “Oh, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “That’s all right. I’m just not used to having company. I was singingLorena.My pa told me that they sang it around the campfires during the war. It made him so homesick that one night he just got up and started walking home.” She turned back to the stove. “I didn’t mean to disturb you with my caterwauling.”
“I’d hardly call it caterwauling.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He held up the towel. “I was wondering if you’d make sure my back was dry.”
“Oh, yes.” She wiped her hands on her apron before pulling a chair out from the table and turning it. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Austin crossed the short distance separating them, handed her the towel, straddled the chair, and folded his arms over its straight back. She pressed the towel against his wound. He closed his eyes, relishing her touch, as gentle as the first breath of spring. He’d been too long without a woman, without the peacefulness a woman’s presence offered a man. It was more than the actual touch. It was the lilt of her voice, her flowery fragrance. The smile she was hesitant to give. The gold of her eyes.
Lightly, she pressed her fingers around the wound. “I don’t see any signs of infection brewing, but it’s still red and angry-looking. I wonder if I should sew it.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“No.”
