Morning Fawn grimaced as Devon helped her into the saddle. Her torn, bloodied stockings showed beneath her skirt hem.
He shook his head. “You set out on a four- to five-hundred-mile trip without even a pair of shoes?”
“I have nothing else to say to a weasel warrior like you. You probably ran off from your regiment, afraid to fight.” She slammed her heel into his gut.
He gritted his teeth and gripped the bridle. He had half a mind to step away. Wash his hands of her. Let Owens take her back. LeBeau wasn’t the only aristocratic Reb around who’d bewilling to welcome a wounded Confederate officer. But a glance at her disheveled clothes told him he wasn’t going anywhere. It’d be like leaving a two-thirds-grown cougar cub with its paw in a trap. A fellow with any heart couldn’t abandon the creature, even if it was liable to bite his hand off. “You try running away, and I’ll catch you again. Hog tie you and throw you across the saddle on your belly, Miss Logan.”
“Morning Fawn.”
“That’s the problem. You still see yourself as Comanche.” Jaw clenched, he wound her lead rope around his gloved hand and led Owens’s horse over to his own, without venturing another look in her direction.
Best keep his head on straight and cauterize his sympathy. He had a mission to complete, and if this woman caught wind of it, he’d end up swinging from a noose. She’d turn him in quicker than an arrow springs from a bow.
Morning Fawn sat rigid with her hands tied to the saddle horn of Owens’s horse. Not much of a horseman, Owens struggled with reining in the Thoroughbred as George followed behind. On her left, Captain Devon Reynolds rode close enough to smell. The odors of wood smoke, horse, and sweat drifted her way. From the looks of him, he must have been on the road for a week or more. Dust and red dirt coated his yellow-piped Confederate shell jacket and trousers. Thick stubble covered the lower half of his tanned face, forming a thin, dark beard. He clenched her lead rope in his gloved hand.
What had happened to his eye? There’d been no patch summer before last when he’d helped ruin her life. The pinkish scar across the bridge of his nose looked fresher thanthat. And the way he’d glared at her when she’d remarked about him being a coward? His scowl could have flayed her.
If he hadn’t butted his nose in where it didn’t belong and spoiled her escape plan?—
Plan? There hadn’t been any, other than riding as fast and as far as she could toward the western horizon and Comancheria. She could have made it. Maybe not to Comancheria, but somewhere away from here.
Clouds drifted over the sun, sucking away the warmth.
Tension knotted her stomach as she cantered past too-familiar fields. Withered brown leavings from the cotton harvest littered the hardened rows, rows trodden by hundreds of feet. Her grip on the saddle horn tightened.
A hawk soared overhead, gliding over the fields. Free.
Reynolds glanced her way, his lips set in a firm line. Beneath his slouch hat, a lock of chestnut-brown hair dipped over his forehead. One smoky turquoise eye studied her. “It was never my intention to do you harm.”
She exhaled. “You took me from my family and my home. My way of life. Did you expect me to thank you for that?”
“Not exactly.” He hesitated. “But I figure I probably rescued you from working like a slave sun-up to past sun-down at the mercy of some warrior. And from being part of a tribe hunted by soldiers, Texas Rangers, and any settler with a gun and grudge. As a matter of fact, I might have saved your life.”
“I was no slave. And it’d be better to work hard at the side of a man I love than sell my heart to the man with the most cotton.” She jutted her chin. “And as for being safe, you don’t strike me as a man who goes out of his way to be safe.”
“Were you…did you have a beau?” His brow furrowed.
That’s no concern of yours. She rolled her eyes, giving his impertinence the response it deserved. “Now’s a little late for you to be asking, don’t you think? After you destroyed everything. I could have had a husband for all you know.”
He blinked wide.
Did he feel guilty? Might there be a chance? She leaned toward his mount, keeping her voice low. “It’s not too late. You could…” She lifted her tied hands. “And let go of the lead rope.”
“Absolutely not, Miss Logan.”
“You’re no better than the rest of them.” She ground her teeth.
A chilly breeze rippled through her hair and seeped beneath her dress.
A chaw of tobacco tucked in his cheek, Owens veered down the lane to the right, and Reynolds followed. Morning Fawn’s chest tightened as she rode through the wrought-iron gate of Sweetbriar. Trees lined this part of the pebbled lane. Overhanging branches of oak and elm dangled yellow and red leaves overhead.
Owens slowed and cast her a sneer. “See, Miss Logan, we got you home safe and sound.”
She scowled at him, tempted to spit on his boot.
A dog barked. Old Blue Belle, Uncle Robert’s hound, ran up, took a sniff, and settled into pace alongside them.
Morning Fawn’s shoulders slumped as the main house came into view. Its majestic white columns extended from the wide porch to the gabled roof. Dark green shutters accented the tall windows. The upper branches of the twin cottonwoods stretched toward the attic. No surprise, they’d nailed the attic windows shut temporarily when she’d first arrived here.
