Never Marry a Cowboy (13 page)

“What I did has no bearing on the purpose of this story, which is that a true friend knows your faults and yet his regard for you does not lessen. If you consider me a friend, then you must be willing to bare your weaknesses to me.”

“All my weaknesses would repulse you.”

“If that is the case, then I am not a friend and you would do well to be rid of me.”

With a small laugh, she snuggled against his shoulder. “If I got rid of you, who would keep me warm at night?”

He slammed his eyes closed. Keeping her warm at night was only temporary. When he returned her to David…dear God, but he did not wish to travel that path. Not now, not tonight.

“Do you think the waves ever cease?” she asked quietly.

He opened his eyes and gazed past her to the blackness of the ocean, the white crests that seemed to have the power to hold the moonlight when nothing else did.

“No,” he said in a low voice.

“I find that a comforting thought,” she whispered, “to know there is something in this world that does not die.”

He felt a tear fall onto his forearm as he held her and drew her more closely against him. He damned Harry for the wisdom of his words.

As he fought back the tears burning his own eyes, he realized that he'd just dropped more deeply into hell.

W
ith the late afternoon sun easing into the house, Kit quietly ascended the stairs and walked into the room he shared with his wife. The balcony doors were open as were all the windows. The salty breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of Ashton's hair as she slept on the bed, the pen in her hand creating a blackened stain of ink on the journal resting there.

He had no idea she kept a journal. He knew she took a nap every afternoon. He supposed that this afternoon she'd succumbed before finishing her entry. She had not slept well last night, not even after they had spent considerable time staring at the blackened sea.

He desperately regretted his behavior yesterday. He wanted her to find happiness during the time they were together. Yesterday, he'd brought her nothing but misery.

He was not accustomed to simply holding women while they lay in his bed. Yet he found a certain unexpected comfort in knowing she was there, demanding
nothing of him except his presence. But holding her brought its own hell because he knew he could never move beyond it.

Thank God her innocence allowed her to find contentment with nothing more than his arms around her.

He shook his head as the blot of ink grew larger. Ashton's journal would be ruined by the time she awoke.

Careful not to disturb her, he removed the pen from her limp fingers and set it on the table beside the bed. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. His gaze drifted to the journal and he read his name. He turned away. He would not impose upon her privacy.

He stopped and glanced back. He should move the journal from the bed. If she were to roll onto it she might smudge the pages or wrinkle them. He would simply place it on the table as well. He could do that easily enough without reading her words.

He picked up the journal. She had lovely script, each letter a schoolmaster's idea of perfection. Perhaps because she could not control her health, she had been determined to control her penmanship.

He closed the book. He would not read what she'd just written about him in spite of the fact that a cursory glance had revealed his name at least three times.

Curiosity gnawed at him. What harm could come of reading what she'd written before they were married, events and thoughts that did not deal with him? With a measure of guilt, he turned to the first page.

Kit glanced at his wife. He wondered if David had read her journal and if it had influenced his decision to ask Kit to marry her.

He remembered Ashton's words spoken on Mrs. Gurney's front porch. “There is little about me to capture the attention of a man such as yourself.”

Had he been so inattentive and uncaring of her feelings then? Probably. At that time, he had still been unable to look beyond his guilt.

He set the book aside and knelt beside the bed,
studying the way her blond lashes rested lightly on her cheeks. So four years ago she was willing to sacrifice her heart to him. And now, did she wish to take the memory of a broken heart to her deathbed?

He doubted it. Her words had been written before she knew death hovered, when she thought she would have time for her heart to heal and find someone else to cherish her.

Until this moment, he had not comprehended that whatever memories
he
gave her would shine the brightest as she lay waiting for death because they would be the most recent.

And what had he given her yesterday? Anger. Regardless of the fact that he was angry with himself, the fury had manifested itself to a degree that had upset her.

He had been correct in the beginning. Marriage to a dying woman was lunacy.

Why did he continue to prolong the farce when it would mean nothing except more regrets? Quietly, he unfolded his body and walked from the room, wishing he had no reason to return.

 

Guilt gnawed at Kit unmercifully as he rode through Galveston on Lancelot. He had desperately needed to escape death.

If he could but find a way to help Ashton elude its clutches…

He guided the horse along the waterfront. The waves that so intrigued his wife roared against the shore. He heard the boisterous guffaws of men, followed by the gentle laughter of women, the grunts of
fishermen working to bring in their day's haul, ladies gossiping about the latest fashion.

He looked toward the blue sky. All around him, people acted as though nothing were amiss, while at the end of the island, a delicate woman fought not to touch Death's hand.

He was beginning to understand why Christopher had sent for him, why his brother had been unable to be with Clarisse at the end. Christopher had watched his wife wage the same battle that Ashton now valiantly fought.

It was not Clarisse's demise that he'd been unable to face, but her futile attempt to be victorious over death. He had not wanted to witness her defeat.

As one who did not belong, Kit merely watched the people mingling on the docks, yelling from the boats as the sun cast them in an orange haze. He looked toward the western horizon. Twilight would be upon the land soon. He had not meant to be gone so long, and yet a part of him wished to stay away forever.

He was to have made Ashton a bride only, not become her friend, not come to care for her, to resent that death would deny her so much of life.

He jerked on the reins and began the trek back toward the cottage that seemed more a prison than a home. Tomorrow, he would purchase the tickets for their journey back to her brother's. The decision came that simply and with unequaled difficulty.

He knew she would accept his decision, understand his reasoning, and bear him no ill will. But could he say the same of himself when his gut already
clenched and he felt like a man headed for the dungeon of despair?

The house came into view, and he could not help but smile. She would no doubt be watching the sunset. In future years, when he saw the sun ease over the horizon, he would remember her. He would honor her as he continued to honor Clarisse. Tonight, he would tell her so. Perhaps the knowledge would bring her a measure of peace.

He drew his horse to a halt near the small stable and knew that referring to it as such was granting it a title it did not deserve. It had a roof, one solid wall, a trough for oats, and one for water. But the gelding could live without luxury for a while. It was a small request he asked of the beast, and he would make it up to him once they returned to Fortune.

Kit knew he'd want solitude during the journey back from Dallas. He might even take a few detours. Anything to rid himself of the guilt that was already flaying his conscience.

He heard the screech ring from inside the house, and raw fear speared his soul. Ashton had been sleeping when he'd left, but the cook and her daughter had been at the house. Only now did he realize that their carriage was not in sight as he heard his wife screech again.

Like a madman, he tore across the lawn toward the back of the house where the door that led into the kitchen was open. Not an uncommon habit in order to allow the breeze the freedom to keep the house cool. But he heard another tiny scream.

By God, if anyone so much as laid a finger on his wife, he'd rip off the man's arm.

He leapt onto the porch and staggered to a stop in the doorway, stunned by the sight of his wife shaking a broom over a pot of boiling water.

“Get in there, you wretched beast,” his wife growled, but the crab clinging to the bristles of the broom didn't seem inclined to follow her orders. With a pair of scissors, she snipped off the straw and the crab plopped into the water. Ashton visibly shuddered before spinning around. Other crabs skittered across the floor.

Amused at her temerity, Kit crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Madam, what
are
you doing?”

With a squeal, she spun around. Breathing heavily, she stared at him. Her bun was askew as strands of hair that had gained their freedom flew wildly around her face with the breeze easing in through the doorway. Her face was covered in a mixture of white flour and black ashes. Her bodice was soaked and water had splattered over her skirt.

Damnation! The woman was without undergarments again. Lust slammed into him with a vengeance. Dear Lord, but no woman dressed in her finest for a ball had ever appealed to him more.

Tiny legs clicked as her prey moved across the floor. She jerked around, holding her broom as a weapon like some fierce warrior goddess. “Get away, you miserable creature,” she said as she swiped at a crab, knocking him onto his back.

Avoiding the bucket that lay on its side, the other
crabs scampered across the floor, their claws poised high in the air.

Ashton twisted her head around and glared at him. “Don't just stand there. Help me!”

He unfolded his arms. “They are as afraid of you as you are of them, sweetling.”

“I'm not afraid, but I don't like getting pinched.”

“Did one pinch you?” he asked, not certain if he should be concerned or amused.

“Pinched my shoe. He's at the bottom of the pot now.”

He fought back his laughter. “I should do well to remember not to pinch you.”

She lifted her broom. “Don't you dare laugh at me, Christian Montgomery. I had everything under control until I knocked over the pail.”

Along with the grin he could not hold back, he averted his face as he grabbed the bucket. Judging by the condition of the kitchen that he estimated would take a week to straighten, he and his wife had a different understanding of control. “Yes, I can well see that you did.”

He glanced at her, wondering why he found her mutinous expression so intoxicating. Dear God, the mouse had a temper, and he loved it. “See if you can sweep them back into the bucket.”

He held it on the floor while she trooped across the kitchen like a determined soldier. With quick, brief strokes and only a few jumps back, she urged the crabs toward the bucket. As soon as one or two made their entry, he righted the pail, walked to the stove, and dropped them into the pot of boiling water.

He heard Ashton's squeak and glanced over to see a crab dangling from the broom.

“They grab on and won't let go,” Ashton explained as she stomped to the stove. “Move aside.”

He obeyed quickly while she held the crab over the pot and snipped off more of the broom. At this rate, they'd have nothing left with which to clean the floor.

Twenty minutes later he dropped the last crab into the boiling water with a sense of accomplishment. But he noticed something now that he hadn't before. He turned to Ashton. “What's that stench?”

“Oh, no!”

She grabbed a towel, shoved him aside, and opened the oven. She jerked out a pan of blackened something. Biscuits, he supposed, or possibly rolls. She tossed the pan onto the table, dropped into a chair, and slumped forward.

He knelt beside her, his heart tightening at the solitary tear rolling along her cheek. Had it been more, he might have laughed, but one hurt him for reasons he could not fathom.

He brushed back the hair from her face. “Sweetling, don't cry. This debacle isn't your fault. Where the bloody hell is Mrs. Edwards? I hired her to prepare the meals, and when I've given her a piece of my mind—”

“I sent her home,” she said in a voice that sounded as though she'd pushed the words past a lump in her throat.

“Why in God's name did you do that?”

She cast him a furtive glance. “Because I wanted to cook dinner for you. And now look, everything is a
disaster. The rolls are burned, the crabs are obstinate, the flour sack burst. The recipe called for half a cup and I couldn't find one so I had to break a whole one which seemed such a waste, but how else was I to know if I had the right measurement? The kitchen is a mess.” She lifted a frail shoulder. “I just wanted to do something for you because you do everything for me.”

He cradled her cheek. “You have given me something.”

“What?” she asked, hope sparking within her eyes.

An evening he'd never forget. Twilight shadows eased in through the doorway and windows, and he couldn't bring himself to tell her what she'd truly given him.

“English rolls,” he said seriously.

She furrowed her brow. “They're burned.”

“Which is the way the English cook them. I haven't had rolls such as these since I left England, and I've missed them terribly.” He grabbed a knife and worked one out of the pan. He tossed it into the air until it cooled down so he could hold it. Then he began to scrape off the charred crust. “You see, cooking them as you have adds a special flavor. Then you open them, slather on lots of butter—” He tried to pry the obstinate thing open. “Of course, a true English roll needs to soak in milk for at least a week—”

She laughed. “The English don't eat rolls like that.”

He crouched before her and smiled warmly. “No, they don't. I know you mentioned that you'd never cooked, but I thought surely you'd watched someone else do it.”