Morning Fawn glanced at her feet. “Ebony.” She brought her hand up to Ebony’s searching lips. “And I’m only accepting her as a loan, not a gift.”
Right.And you’ve already named her. A mustang. The exact breed of horse she’d expressed a love for last week at supper. Devon’s jaw clenched. LeBeau had probably sent him to San Antonio on purpose, to keep him out of the way of the new suitor. New? The only suitor. And now Morning Fawn couldn’t look Devon in the eyes. Dandy. Just dandy.
Moyer patted the tooled saddle. Was that a gift too? “Maybe next week you can go riding with us, Reynolds. We’ve already had her out for a couple of hours today. We could plan a race. I bet Miss Beth and Ebony will outdo the both of us.”
Devon glanced at the stable, the nodes in his throat like rocks. “I don’t have time for races. I have work to do. I won’t be joining you for supper.” With a click, he started his bay moving again. He had no use for a woman whose head could be turned by a horse.
CHAPTER 15
Devon mashed his pillow. The blasted thing had too much goose down. A man’s head could sink into it like a pinched valley between two smothering mountains.
After supper, Morning Fawn had spent a whole hour with Moyer, walking through the orchard. All within sight of the house as was proper. But had there been any chaperone on that two-hour ride of theirs? LeBeau was likely so giddy from the prospect of acquiring a wealthy son-in-law, he’d be willing to overlook more than a couple steps of impropriety.
Besides, one would think Morning Fawn had had enough of that Moyer’s bragging without enduring it for another hour.
Devon needed his sleep. Tomorrow night, he’d get little. He had to be at Feye’s landing by midnight. Should he sneak off after everyone went to bed, or make up a story about a gambling game in town?
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Surely, Morning Fawn had enough sense to not fall for that smooth-talking dandy. Cut from the same cloth as his stepfather. His mother was a wise, caring, good-hearted woman, but none of that protected her from falling for a man whose heart was tiedto his purse and who felt the color of man’s skin determined his worth.
Devon blew out a breath and sat up. It was no use. He might as well make good use of the night if he wasn’t going to sleep. Grabbing his trousers, he stuck his legs in. He’d head out to the stables and figure out the best way to slip off tomorrow evening unnoticed.
An hour later, Devon’s feet crunched on the fresh straw as he returned the dapple grey to her stall. Working with horses was usually a balm to his mind, but not tonight. Even the familiar smells of fresh hay, oats, and horse did little to unwind the tense cords of his muscles. At least, the extra brushing hadn’t done the animal any harm.
The elderly stable hand slept on a cot in the corner stall, seemingly content with Devon’s excuse of wanting a late-night ride, his silence purchased with a pouch of tobacco. Hopefully, the excuse would work as well tomorrow night.
Little Ebony snorted in the back stall, restless like him, not asleep. Innocent animal, but her presence would weasel its way into Morning Fawn’s heart. Making room for the biggest braggart this side of the Red River, as well? It’d be mighty convenient if someone left her stall door open, and she wandered off. He smacked his gauntlets. He wouldn’t stoop to underhanded met?—
A scream rent the air.
A chill ran up Devon’s spine. The old man stirred, as did all of the horses up and down the line. What if it was Morning Fawn? Devon dropped the curry comb and ran for the house.
Lights came on in LeBeau’s second-floor bedroom. Moments later, the downstairs glowed, as well.
Devon climbed up the front porch steps two at a time and grabbed the doorknob. Locked. Curtains covered the narrow windows that flanked the door. Raised voices sounded inside. He reached for his holster. Of course, no holster, no gun, nothing.He’d go in the back way. Down and around the corner, he hurried, almost tripping on a washboard. Grabbing a small log from the woodpile, he entered the back door of the house and crept down the hall.
A hard smack, flesh to flesh, resonated in the foyer.
“Please, master, there weren’t no man.” Lucy knelt on the floor near the coat rack, dressed in nothing but her chemise, arms curled over her face and head. LeBeau stood over her.
Devon’s stomach dropped to his knees. His fingers hardened on the log as he moved along the shadows close to the wall.
Mrs. LeBeau stood off to the side of the stairs by the engraved sideboard, the hem of her nightgown showing beneath her wrap, her back to Devon.
Flora, the cook, huddled by the front door, her face contorted in a mass of worry. She caught sight of Devon without acknowledgment.
Revolver in his left hand, LeBeau raised his right, as if he would strike again. “Don’t call my daughter a liar, you little wench. Thea said she saw a man in your room. You think she goes screaming in middle of the night for the fun of it?”
“I’s not calling her liar, master.” Lucy’s voice shook. Her dark hair hung down loose about her face. “Maybe’s she was dreaming or seeing shadows.”
“You’re the liar.”Smack. LeBeau struck her on the side of the head.
She wobbled.
“Stop.” Morning Fawn charged down the steps to the first floor. “Leave her alone.
“No.” Mrs. LeBeau grabbed Morning Fawn with one hand, clutching her shawl across her chest with the other. “We can’t interfere.”
“But we can’t?—”
