The left half of the book hung in the air until her hand slowly came up to hold the other side. She flicked a glance his way, questions in her eyes.
He nudged his pinky to hers beneath the hardcover of the hymnal. His sore heart thirsted for a drop of affection. She shuffled her finger out of reach but held the hymnal firm.
The pianist plunked the last note, and the preacher pronounced the benediction.
Devon latched onto Morning Fawn’s arm and stepped into the aisle, drawing her toward the exit. His only hope for a couple of minutes of private conversation was to get her out that door before her aunt could catch her.
“Excuse us.” He shouldered his way past the lady with the little boy and the other congregants. The sanctuary buzzed behind him. He and Morning Fawn would be the talk of the town by dinner.
Morning Fawn shook free of his hold as they pattered down the steps. “Here I thought I was the only one who knew how to create a scandal during a church service. Do you plan to steal a horse too?”
Clouds covered the sun. Patches of mud pock-marked the churchyard as they moved away from the building.
“You’re the expert on that.” The corners of his mouth edged upward. “I want to speak with you before your aunt swoops in.” Touching her elbow, he steered her away from the waiting carriages.
She lifted her skirts. “Thea’s the one you should be talking to. I’m sure she’d love to share with you about the lovely evening we had last night.”
Gravel rumbled in Devon’s craw and his belly. “Dallying with that man is like sticking your head in a fox’s mouth.”
She halted. “Maybe I’d consider your advice if you weren’t so busy with the doctor’s daughter.”
They didn’t have time to fight. Mrs. LeBeau stood at the top of the stairs trying to escape the preacher’s hand clasp.
He pivoted, front and center, his boot toes to the edge of Morning Fawn’s skirt. “What did I tell you in there, Miss Trouble? You’re the girl. The only girl who has my head in a spin.”
Her breath caught. Those hazel irises locked on to him. Beautiful eyes. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
“Is that so?” The breeze lifted the brim on her straw hat and flopped the ends of the blue checkered ribbon that encircled the crown against her hair. “I’d like to hear where you’ve been all night.”
“Helping Dr. Schramm. It had nothing to do with Frieda.”
“Hmmm. Who won the game?”
“What game?”
“The card game you supposedly stayed up all night playing.” She swung into motion, stomping ahead.
How was he supposed to answer that? Give her an excuse such as Dr. Schramm didn’t want his daughter knowing he gambled, so Devon was covering for him? He’d never earn Morning Fawn’s trust if he kept lying to her, but the truth wasn’t an option. He caught up to her. “It’s a secret. We’re helping afriend of Dr. Schramm’s who is in bad shape. It’s not my secret to tell.”
“Sounds pretty fishy to me.” She quirked her mouth to the side.
Mrs. LeBeau barreled toward them, reticule whapping against her leg.
“I’ve got to go.” He flicked the blue hat ribbon away from her face. An idea popped into his head. “I’ll send a note through Lucy.”
“A note?” Her eyes widened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. LeBeau bustled up.
He hurried off without reply. Writing to Morning Fawn? Where had that idea come from? On the way to the Schramms this morning, he’d come up with almost half a dozen reasons why he should distance himself from her. And here he was throwing logic out the window. He had to be insane.
CHAPTER 21
Devon splashed his face with water from the basin on the small washstand in his room. He’d thought the evening would never end. Mr. Clement and Mr. Snodgrass from nearby plantations had joined them for supper and then an evening of brandy, cigars, and cards in the library for the men. And even though he didn’t care for the latter two, he’d endured all three for the sake of listening in on their discussion of the cotton trade. Two shots of watered-down brandy and one cigar. His head was cloudy and his throat irritated.
He was good at cards—too many nights of playing by Ranger campfires and in the officer quarters and the saloons in New Orleans while he waited to ship out to retake Texas—but he’d lost badly tonight. Every time his mind had a moment to drift, it’d spun circles around moments with Morning Fawn. If only he could blame it on the brandy, but it was more than that, much more.
Exhaling, he dried his face, loosened his shirt buttons close to his neck, and sat down at his writing desk. Not really his. Borrowed from the absent Dr. Arthur Lebeau. Devon didn’town a stick of furniture of his own. Not good husband material. He’d better not forget that.
