Carolyn Davidson - Texas Gold

Max lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not at my best when I’m hungry, Faith. Will you take pity?”

Her look was scornful, and her sigh told of patience at its end as she led the way to the house. “A piece of toast and a couple of eggs wouldn’t be beyond me, I suppose,” she said, climbing the steps before him.

Her slender form was garbed in heavy cotton, and yet she was as appealing as she’d ever been when dressed in silk and lace, he thought. Possibly even more so. There was a maturity about her that held his interest, a beauty gained by the years, perhaps even abetted by the struggle she’d undergone in this place. He’d admired her three years ago, and been smitten by her lovely face and figure before their marriage began. How could he help but be even more intrigued by the woman she had become since he’d last seen her?

She’d been young, twenty-two years old, with the promise of acceptance from Boston society and a husband who held her in highest esteem. And yet she’d still been not much more than a girl, hurt by circumstances that fate dealt out in a cruel fashion, and unsure of herself and her place in the world in which they lived.

She’d changed, he decided. Faith was a woman, full grown. The promise of beauty she’d worn like a shimmering shawl of elegance had become a deep-seated, golden radiance that illuminated her as if sunshine itself dwelled within. Her eyes were intelligent, the small lines at the corners adding a certain maturity to their depth.

Her hair had lightened considerably, probably from hours spent in the sun, he thought. And she was lean, her youthful curves shaped by whatever work she’d been doing into sleek, feminine contours that drew his eye to the length of her slender form.

And then she was gone from sight, entering the dim kitchen, and he hastened to follow. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the shadowed interior, and watched as she walked unerringly to the stove against the far wall. A coffeepot sat on the back burner and she pulled it forward, then lifted a skillet from where it hung amid a collection of pots and pans, all neatly arrayed against the wall.

“Two eggs?” she asked, turning to him as one hand reached for a bowl of brown eggs on the kitchen counter. A heavy cupboard adorned one wall, glass doors above displaying dishes, solid doors beneath apparently concealing foodstuffs.

“Yes, two is fine. Three would be better, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”

She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I can afford to feed you.” Her hands were deft, unwrapping and slicing a loaf of bread and placing two pieces on the oven rack. The eggs were cracked and dropped with care into the skillet, to which she had added a scoop of butter from a dish on the table.

“Do you bake your own bread?” he asked, settling in a chair, stretching his legs full length and crossing his boots at the ankle before he placed his hat on the edge of the table.

“The nearest store is close to an hour’s ride away,” she said, “and they don’t carry a selection of bread. The ladies hereabouts bake their own.”

“And the butter?” he asked. “You know how to make that, too?”

“Any fool can learn how to lift a dasher and let it fall into a churn,” she told him. “The difficult part was finding a neighbor with a cow.”

“Why didn’t you buy one of your own?” he asked idly, his gaze fixed on the neat economy of her movements as she set the table before him, turned the eggs in the pan and rescued the toasted bread from the oven.

“A little matter of money,” she said. “Mine is in short supply.”

“Where do you get your milk, then?” he asked, intrigued by her methods of survival. She’d never been so complicated a woman during their marriage.

“I told you,” she said impatiently, serving his eggs and placing the toast neatly on the edge of his plate. “I barter for what I need. There are a couple of neighbors close enough to swap milk for eggs, or garden produce. Right now, I get my milk from Lin’s cow.” She looked up quickly to meet his gaze.

“Lin is Nicholas Garvey’s wife. I taught her how to milk her cow, and since I have chickens, and she hasn’t had time to develop much of a flock yet, I provide eggs for their table.”

Max nodded, picking up his fork. The woman was downright resourceful. “And how about your staples? You know, the everyday things you need in order to put food on the table.”

“I have a big flock of laying hens,” she said. “I carry eggs to town once a week, and I do sewing and mending for folks. Then there’s my garden.”

“You raise your own food?” The eggs were good—fresh, with bright golden yolks. And the bread was finely textured and browned with a delicate touch. He spread butter on the piece he’d torn off, and tasted it. “Someone taught you well,” he announced.

“Trial and error, for the most part. Though I had a neighbor, while I was still a squatter, who shared her yeast with me.”

“A squatter?” His face froze, as if he was stunned by the term.

“Yes, a squatter. Not a pretty word, is it, but it applied to me. I lived in a cabin in the woods on property not my own.”

“I know what a squatter is, Faith. But I hate it that you were reduced to that. Why didn’t you take money with you when you left? You knew the combination to my safe.”

“I had money,” she said stubbornly. “And I sold my mother’s jewelry.”

“I know. I bought it back,” he said quietly. “I traced you that far during the first week. And then you vanished from the face of the earth.” His fork touched the plate with a clatter, and he looked down at it in surprise, then lifted it to place it carefully beside his knife on the table.

“I thought you were dead, murdered perhaps, or killed in an accident, and someone had hidden your body. I was only too aware that the city was not a safe place for a woman alone.”

She sighed, and her voice held a note of regret. “I’m sorry. Truly I am, Max. I fear I wasn’t thinking rationally when I left. But there was the note.” Her pause was long as she awaited his reply, as if he might admit to the accusations her note had held, listing his sins, one by one.

She prodded him. “You did read my note, didn’t you?”

“Of course I read it. As a matter of fact, I’ve read it since, several times, and it still doesn’t make much sense. At any rate, I was never able to fully understand your reasons for walking away from me.”

“I’m a bit surprised that you even knew I was gone,” she said casually.

He glanced up, aching as he recognized the truth. “You had become like a shadow, Faith, barely causing a ripple in the household. I thought it best to leave you to grieve as you saw fit, I suppose. I certainly hadn’t helped the process by trying to comfort you with my presence.”

Her laughter was broken by a sound that he thought resembled a sob, and he felt a familiar sense of helplessness wash over him as she turned aside. “I don’t recall you even speaking of our son’s death, Max. Let alone offering me any comfort.”

Then she spun to face him, and her face was contorted by pain, her eyes awash with tears she could not hide. “Please. Just eat your breakfast and be on your way. We have nothing else to discuss as far as I’m concerned.”

“We haven’t even begun,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“What about your business?” Her words were a taunt. “Surely it will fall into ruins without you there at least sixteen hours a day to keep it on the straight and narrow.”

The sound of her voice was shrill now, and if ever he’d seen Faith lose control of her emotions, it was at this moment. Even the tears she’d shed at their son’s funeral had not torn at his heart as her helpless sobs did now.