Promise Me Texas (A Whispering Mountain Novel) (12 page)

What if his pa was out back burning his clothes?

CHAPTER 12

A
NDREW SEARCHED EVERY BAR IN
H
ELL’S
H
ALF
A
CRE
looking for Levi and Leonard’s father.

No one seemed to have heard of him, but everyone tried to sell him a drink or a night of fun.

He’d known it was a long shot, but he had to give it his best try. Gamblers tended to move on to the next town, but if Hawthorne had been here for a while, someone might know which way he went next. Every town in Texas that claimed three buildings seemed to have a saloon, and in every saloon a gambler would be waiting to take a little of a cowboy’s money.

It didn’t help matters that Levi mentioned that his father made them all remember that they were Hawthornes now, not Smiths. He’d told his son that he picked his name because it sounded like the man wearing it would belong on a stage. Levi’s father swore everyone who heard it would remember Theodore B. Hawthorne, and he might as well use it for his gambling career also.

This whole state seemed awash in nicknames and shortened handles, Andrew reflected. Some cowhands were called by where they came from or how tall they were. For all he knew the boys’ father could be going by Ted Brown or Jay Wilson by now.

In the haze of blowing dust, Andrew walked back toward the little town house he now called home. He’d talked to so many sleazy drunks and gamblers today, he felt like he needed a bath. He wondered how such good people like the McMurrays could thrive in a place where the good guys seemed so outnumbered. Until he’d met Beth, he was beginning to think there was no such thing as the “code of the West” that so many dime novelists wrote about. The state was poor in everything but cattle, and trouble seemed to ride the wind. Beth might be living in a world of her own making, but she loved her family and she cared about other people. That kind of goodness had to have been bred into her.

He grinned. If he were counting her gifts, he’d have to add that she kissed like most men dream their whole life of being kissed. Just brushing her lips made him forget to breathe. He knew his Hannah was dead. He’d mourned her a long time. Maybe it took someone like Beth to remind him he was still alive.

Because, like it or not, he
was
still alive.

When he turned the corner, Andrew saw two men standing a few houses down from his place staring up at his windows. It was dark enough that they could probably see people moving around inside. They weren’t walking, or even talking, they were just watching.

When Andrew drew closer, with his head low into his upturned collar, they both melted into the shadows. He crossed the street, not wanting to get too close. The streetlights offered circles of light surrounded by a blackness so deep it would be hard to see where the road stopped and the narrow boardwalks began. But this was his territory and he knew it well.

He found his front door unlocked and hurried in, throwing the bolt immediately. Who were those men watching for?

Taking a deep breath, he forced worry from his features so he wouldn’t frighten the boys. He was home. From the laughter around him, he knew they were safe.

When he turned around, Andrew couldn’t believe the changes in the place. A huge crate had been turned on its side to serve as a table in the kitchen area. Stools made from barrels were now chairs. Candles were lit on top of a tablecloth as if they were having a fancy meal.

“It’s about time you’re home, dear,” Beth said in her best almost-wife voice. “We’re all ready to eat.”

He smiled, loving the pretend game. Loving the idea that he might have someone to come home to again, if only for a few days.

Crossing the room, he politely kissed her cheek. Beth smelled of cinnamon. For a moment he wished they had the house to themselves. He hungered to kiss her again, softly this time, tenderly, as if there were a possibility they might become lovers.

He didn’t want one night of passion and need, but a slow burn that had to be stoked like a long winter fire, building to white-hot and smoldering low even when they were a room apart, but always, always burning.

The sudden realization of how much he wanted her shook him. She wasn’t the kind of woman to take pieces of a man’s love. She’d want it all. She deserved it all, and he was a man who could never love that way again.

He was only telling himself a story . . . as though he could weave fiction into the real world and live there.

The boys thundered down from the attic, reminding him to stop daydreaming and deal with reality.

They were full of questions, but he had few answers. He’d met a man who remembered their father from Dallas but said he hadn’t seen him in Fort Worth. Andrew said he’d also talked with a boardinghouse owner who said he thought he remembered the name but couldn’t put a face to it. He said he thought a man named Hawthorne had rented a bedroom for a week or so three months back.

Andrew didn’t add that the owner mentioned the man had left with a painted-up lady who said she was a singer at one of the gaming houses in the polished part of town.

“Did you ask if the man was dark-headed?” Levi asked. “Maybe he had a mustache. My father likes to wear a mustache when the weather turns cold, or a beard cut short.”

“I asked,” Andrew promised. “The man said he couldn’t remember anything except for the name.”

By the time Andrew described everywhere he’d looked, Levi hung his head in disappointment. Leonard had stopped listening and decided to watch the food being brought to the table instead. Regular meals were too new not to be exciting.

Everyone except Colby gathered round the table. Andrew took off his jacket and didn’t miss Beth’s frown. For a moment he thought she might consider him too informal, but surely shirtsleeves were all right for supper on a crate.

“You don’t like these clothes, do you?” He found it hard to believe that the style he’d worn and thought looked very proper all his life was somehow offensive to her.

“There’s nothing wrong with them. I don’t like suspenders,” she whispered so the others wouldn’t hear. “The clothes don’t seem you. I feel like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes. You look like a banker or a city lawyer. Was there something wrong with the clothes I bought you in Dallas?”

He frowned, thinking he should dig his dirty outdoor clothes from his saddlebags and wear them. That might make her happy. The shirt and jeans she’d bought him were far too informal for his liking and the belt not nearly as comfortable as his suspenders. “I’ve been a banker or at least a teller, and one year in Chicago I worked with a lawyer for a while.”

Somehow he wasn’t measuring up to Beth’s image of him, which was very frustrating, since they’d met at a train robbery when he’d been wearing black. “I’m not a rancher, Beth. I know nothing of cattle. I don’t carry a gun, and even if I did, I’m only a fair shot. I can ride, but not half as well as you do. My fingers have ink stains, not calluses from hard work.” He didn’t give her time to say anything before he added, “I guess in your eyes, I’m a total failure as a man.”

“Not completely—there are a few things I’ve discovered you’re good at—but we simply must talk about the clothes.”

“I doubt that discussion will ever happen,” he answered, wondering what kind of fool would allow a woman to pick out his clothing.

The others gathered around the table, talking of all they’d done to his house. He might not be willing to change one piece of clothing, but he wouldn’t have minded at all if they’d painted the house red if it brought them joy.

There were obvious improvements. She’d put out little things that a woman would think made the house look like a home. But there was nothing expensive . . . nothing that he wouldn’t leave behind when he moved on. He offered his thanks and she nodded, accepting the compliment.

“Where’s our cowboy?” Andrew asked as he stood waiting until Beth scooted onto the stool. “Is he already on his way back to the ranch?” They’d been in Fort Worth a full day. It was probably time that one or two of his migrant flock flew away.

Beth and Madie both shook their heads. “He didn’t hear back from his pa today,” Beth said. “I told him I’d loan him the money for a ticket home, but he said no. I think he fears his father will be mad because he’s late, and he wants to know he’ll be welcome when he gets there.”

“So where is he?” Andrew knew from the silence that followed that anything they said would be a guess.

“Out walking, I think,” Beth tried. “He checked at the telegraph office and came back to tell us there would be no answer today, and then he walked out the door. If we were at the ranch, my papa would say he was riding the wind, which is what McMurrays seem to do when they need to clear their minds and think.”

“Maybe he’s tired of our food and went out for a meal,” Madie chimed in. “We had men stop by the café all the time who wanted to eat someone else’s cooking for a change. One man stopped by almost every day on the way home from work for a piece of pie. He told me if it wasn’t for the pie first he’d never be able to face his wife’s cooking.”

“Colby’s not tired of your cooking,” Andrew answered. “I can almost see him fattening up on your biscuits.” He wanted to ask about Madie’s man, but since she’d stopped talking about him, he decided to leave it alone.

Andrew was surprised at how much he was learning by what the women were not saying. They talked around subjects, never filling him in on anything important. Madie had cut both the boys’ hair, but Leonard wouldn’t stay still, so his was shorter on one side. Beth had rigged up a line out back and planned to wash tomorrow.

When the dishes were done, Andrew pulled down an old book of stories he’d written one summer in North Carolina. He pulled a stool close to the fire and the boys spread out on a blanket as he began to read aloud.

Levi and Leonard seemed to love hearing about a group of children who ran the streets of a sleepy town solving mysteries for a dime. “The Case of the Stolen Garden.” “The Mystery of the Disappearing Boathouse.” “Crime on Cemetery Road.”

When he finished the third story, he looked up to find that not only the boys, but Beth and Madie were listening.

“One more,” Levi begged.

“Tomorrow night. I promise. It’s bedtime now.” Andrew couldn’t hide his grin. He’d never read his stories aloud. In truth, he’d never much thought about people enjoying them; he only thought of someday selling them.

Everyone, including Beth, protested, wanting him to continue reading, but he held firm. While Beth banked the fire in the stove, Madie took the boys upstairs.

The past two days the house had seemed alive, and right now it was settling, grumbling, shifting into sleep. . . .

He wanted to write his thoughts down, but first he had one more thing to do before turning in.

Andrew waited until he knew the children wouldn’t hear him leave. He crossed to the back door, pulling on his coat as he went.

“I think I’ll go for a walk. Maybe I’ll find Colby.” When he saw the concern on Beth’s face, he added, “It seems odd that he’d miss a meal, but then I don’t know the boy well. If he went out in this town looking for trouble, I’ve no doubt he’ll find it. The country is his territory, but the streets are mine.” He could see by her eyes that she’d been worried too. “If I find him, I’ll watch over him.”

“Why not go out the front door?”

Andrew didn’t want to alarm her, but he wanted her prepared. “I noticed two men watching the house when I came in. If I go out the back they won’t know I’ve left. I’d like to get closer to them and find out why they’re near as well as check on Colby. Stay here and keep the doors locked until I return, would you, dear?”

She nodded, and he was gone before she asked more questions.

He circled two blocks over before doubling back in the shadows. Over the months he’d often walked at night and knew these quiet streets well. A kind of off-key orchestra seemed to always play this time of night. A dog barking, a couple fighting, the sound of horses moving along the dirt-packed streets. A church bell chiming as if greeting the whistle of a train. All were the sounds Andrew knew from towns he’d crossed through. None were quite his home, but all were familiar.

He enjoyed being in the country, but the smells and noises of towns pumped in his blood. One more reason he’d never belong with Beth. As if he needed another reason.

The two men were still in the same spot. One was smoking, the other leaning against the building. Both looked tired and ready to leave. They were watching his house, not invading. He had a feeling they wouldn’t be too friendly if he walked up and asked why.

After a few minutes, Andrew disappeared between two houses and crossed to a back street. If Colby Dixon was looking for a drink, he might pick one of the quiet little hotel coffee shops a few blocks over. Surely he was smart enough not to go alone all the way to Hell’s Half Acre after dark, and he wasn’t dressed to blend in at the hotel restaurants.

Most of the little hotel bars and coffee shops were closed already, but on the third block he checked Andrew found Colby sitting at the counter of a place that served a late supper and beer to merchants and travelers alike.