The oil lamp flickered, and shadows danced on the wall. What would it be like to dance with Morning Fawn, to hold her for a waltz? She’d probably step on his toes, but he could teach her, her hand in his, him leading her…
He shook himself and picked up a pencil. To start, he could try to spell out Morning Fawn’s Comanche name in English. He touched the graphite to the paper—paper intended for mission notes. What was he doing creating expectations and starting a romance he could not finish? How much time did he have? Two or three weeks before he struck the cotton warehouse. There was no guarantee of anything after that. He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. He didn’t need a love note, just a few simple words. Maybe a question. He knew so little about her past life, the years with the Comanche.
He couldn’t ask the question that came foremost to his mind. Had she ever been in love? It fractured into several.
After he’d located her Comanche village, he’d paid a trader to go in and find out as much as he could about her. The man had reported that Morning Fawn didn’t have a husband yet, but she was intended to soon be joined with one of the lead warriors, a man maybe two decades older than her. Devon and his men had captured her three days later. Was she in love with the man? Most young Comanche women would have been married by her age. For all he knew, she could have been married and widowed before. He couldn’t imagine her married to a warrior. If he hadn’t rescued her, she might be a mother by now. He couldn’t imagine her married to anyone but?—
The thought froze his finger.
A knock sounded somewhere down the hall. Voices murmured and then a door closed. No retreating steps. Perhaps Mr. LeBeau had chosen to visit his wife’s chambers. Never in his life would Devon have a separate bedroom from his wife. Ifhe ever married again…when he married again, he and his wife would share a bed every night. Any disagreements, they’d settle before slumber overtook them.Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. That’s what the Bible said, and that’s what he’d practiced…with Isabelle.
He blew out a breath and rested his forehead on his interlaced fingers, the pencil still in his grip. Isabelle. He’d written her love letters.
The thought shuddered through him. How could he have forgotten? Not forgotten. Buried the memory deep. After he’d left home at seventeen to make his own way, he’d written her from the trails, the prairies, dirt-hole towns, the light of a campfire when the Rangers allowed a fire, even from a saloon or two. He’d written, and she had replied, keeping their love alive during their six years of separation.
He laid down the pencil and sank against the back of the chair. Would Isabelle have been better off if he had never written? No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that. They’d been happy, so head over heels in love.
His heart drooped. He had no business stirring up feelings and hopes between him and Morning Fawn. If his mission failed, he’d be on the run, in prison, or dead. If he succeeded, he’d only survive by outrunning any pursuers. He needed to make arrangements with the Schramms for the German League to get Morning Fawn out of the county after he was gone. He couldn’t leave her here. He’d promised. But it would put her life in jeopardy if he took her with him.
The lamp flickered, casting shadows on the page.
His stomach felt as if it were filled with lead. He’d send his Bible to her, but he’d squash any hint of romance.
Sometimes the most loving thing to do was to walk away.
Sunlight filtered in through the rough panes of the textile cabin. A concoction of smells—onion, beet, and others—from the shed out back where Aunt Mamie stood stirring her vats of dyes drifted in through the cracks in the chinking.
Morning Fawn angled the awl into the supple buckskin and twisted it until the sharp point poked through the other side. One hole after another, she worked her way around the foot-shaped pattern. Devon had passed the hide to her through Lucy on his return from his two-day trip to Columbus and Alleyton. It wasn’t as if he’d gone there of his own choice. Her uncle sent him there on cotton business, but cotton wasn’t the only thing in Alleyton.
When she’d mentioned to her uncle that she needed more material for dresses and asked to go along, bringing her aunt as chaperone, not only had LeBeau said no, but Devon had agreed with him. Was it for show, or had Devon meant it? And as for his promise to write her? The clerk at the general store could have sent a better note.
I’m sending my Bible for your use.The marked verses have been invaluable to me in my life.
Devon had handed off the Bible through Lucy the next day, but he hadn’t bothered to reply to her thank you. Why? She rammed the point through the leather, going deep this time and nicking her finger.
“Ow.” She shook her hand and sucked on the drip of blood that trickled from the top of her forefinger.
“The deer’s already dead. Don’t have to kill it again.” Lucy chuckled as she wove the shuttle through the warp threads on the loom.
The rhythmic pattern of the weaving usually fascinatedMorning Fawn, and she’d worked at learning the terms related to weaving, but not today.
“So you going to talk to me, girl?” Lucy glanced over from her work.
Morning Fawn punctured the last hole and tossed the awl into her sewing basket. “I’m thankful to have the buckskin, but Lieutenant Reynolds promised to take me hunting and teach me how to shoot a rifle, not bring me back a piece of store-brought hide.”
“Mighty fine piece of leather. Said he bought it off a trader.”
“And he couldn’t take two minutes to come tell me that or at least send a note? I thought he was a man of his word.”
Lucy stepped on the first treadle, shot the shuttle through again, and drew the beater bar down hard against the weave. “He did ask me how you liked it. And maybe the hunting will come later.”
“The man has a mouth. He can talk to me. Especially with my uncle off in Houston for the week buying a horse.” LeBeau could stay gone two weeks as far as she was concerned. “Lieutenant Reynolds has another thought coming if he thinks he can be all smiles on Sunday morning, then run off to Alleyton anytime he pleases the rest of the week without me.” She picked up an arm’s length of sinew Aunt Mamie had secretly secured for her and poked it through the needle eye. “I’ve come up with a plan.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m going to Alleyton next time Devon goes, and I need your and George’s help.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “What kind of help?”
