Why did he have to turn into the perfect gentleman now?
She pivoted toward the house. “It’s been a long evening, sir, for both of us.”
“Please understand.” He stepped beside her. His ring glistened in the moonlight as he scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “I was taken aback to discover I have competition for your hand.”
She crossed her arms. “There isn’t any competition. I’m not ready to make a decision. At the moment, I’m thinking about the benefits of being a spinster.”
He chuckled. “My fair lady, we could not have that.” He’d recovered quickly, his fox-like instincts sharp once more.
Skirts gathered, she headed for the house.
Once again, his hand slipped around her arm. “It’d be a shame for a lady of your beauty, spunk, and character to be shuttered away, living at your uncle’s mercy and provision for the rest of your life.”
Did he know about the attic? Was this a veiled threat or just flowery talk? How much had her uncle said to him? Her shoulders tensed.
“Beth.” He stopped her at the bottom of the steps.
It wasBethnow? “There’s aMisspart there, Mr. Moyer.”
He clicked his tongue. “Forgive my presumption, but my thoughts dwell on you so often, I feel as if we’ve known each other for ages.” He stepped in front of her. “My heart cannot bear the thought of losing you.”
You never had me.
He held out his hand to her. “May I?”
Reluctantly, she edged her stiff fingers toward his.
“You must give me the opportunity to win your affection.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.
Should she come out and say it? “There are easier ways to get land, Mr. Moyer. And you already have plenty.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Miss Beth, if you think it’s the land I care about, you’re greatly mistaken. You can have the parcel in Parker County to do with as you please. Set up a refugee for your beloved Comanche if you wish.” He brought her hand to hislips, his eyes glistening. “It is you my heart desires. I want you to reign by my side.”
Everything, or almost everything, she could ask for, offered to her on the silver platter of his tongue.
A tingle ran up her arm as his lips brushed her fingers in a lingering kiss.
With Lucy nowhere in sight, Morning Fawn struggled out of the crinoline, dropping it to her feet on the attic floor.
Her head still spun with Moyer’s lavish promises. She could have the land to do with as she pleased. Bring her pia there, and maybe others, as well. Reign? She’d seen that word in books, like a king or queen. Goodness knows that man thought enough of himself to imagine himself a king. Probably try to rule her like one as well.
She didn’t want to be bought. Was it too much to ask for love?
The moon shone through the window. Stepping over the heap of clothes, she drifted to and pressed her nose to the pane, rubbing her hands over her arms. Where was this God her mother had told her about? Her mother had prayed and read the Bible to her and sang songs like “Amazing Grace.”
What was that? Grace? Her mother and the preacher—her pa, too—talked about Jesus and how Jesus loved her and died for her and had forgiven her. It hardly seemed like anything more than a story. But her mother had believed it. With all of her heart. And so had Eyes-Like-Sky, at least she had before. Who knew what she believed now.
Where was this God? And what did He mean to Morning Fawn? If she prayed, would He answer? She used to pray.
At meals, the LeBeaus prayed the Lord’s Prayer and otherprayers written down in a book. The same words at every meal, repeated at the right time. That wasn’t how her mother prayed. Tonight at dinner, she’d opened her eyes. Devon wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t fiddling with his fork, anxious for the prayers to be done, the memorized words to be said. Instead, his hands were clasped and his head bowed. He stayed that way moments longer, even after theamenwas said and everyone else opened their eyes. As if he was really praying, as if it meant something to him.
She turned from the window and picked her dress up off the floor. Devon’s handkerchief tumbled halfway out of the pocket. Warmth flowed through her as she brought the clean white linen to her nose and inhaled. Bay rum, soap, a tinge of horse. Her cheeks heated. The way he’d looked at her as she’d come down the stairs… The set of his jaw had been hard, but his lake-blue eye…sparks of fire.
Nonsense. She had no business giving that man a second thought. Better get her head on straight.
Somewhere down below, a clock chimed three in the afternoon. Morning Fawn knelt by the far side of her bed, peeked under the overhanging covers, and tugged the leather pouch free from its hiding place between the ropes and the mattress. She should have a couple of hours to write in her journal before Lucy came to help her dress for the evening meal—another Saturday supper with Moyer at the table. Only this time, Reynolds wouldn’t be waiting at the bottom of the stairs. On Monday, her uncle had sent him off to San Antonio on cotton business, and she hadn’t seen him since.
Flipping open the flap on the pouch, she carefully pulled out the yarn-bound book with the rough brown pages she’d cut from the package wrapping stolen by Lucy. With the blockade,every scrap of paper was treasured. Too bad Morning Fawn couldn’t just ask for the wrapping, but then Uncle Robert would want to see what she’d been writing. And from the way he’d reacted when that newspaperman came by a few months ago wanting to write the story of her captivity, she knew exactly where her narrative would wind up if her uncle got ahold of it. The fireplace.
