A peculiar frown crimping his face, he nodded past her shoulder. She snatched the shirt off the porch railing and thrust it at him.
By the time the shaggy hair, graying at the temples, emerged from the shirt’s placket collar, the frown had deepened. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”
She sucked a breath and barreled ahead before those damn blue eyes scrambled her brain. “Why are you still here?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You were supposed to prove to me that you own this land, remember?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I do remember something about that.”
“So why are you still here?”
“Saber’s not ready to travel.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “If that horse gets any fatter, you won’t be able to get a saddle on him. You need to go home.”
“And leave you out here alone? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Exasperation pinched her lips. “The war has been over for months. Your family has got to be worried about you.”
A wry huff escaped as he massaged the muscle where his neck met his shoulder. “Probably not.”
“Ben Collier—”
“Maggie Fannin.” He matched her narrowed glare for a long moment before lowering his head and expelling a gusty breath. A world-weary gaze bounced to hers just long enough to betray a glimpse of dread. Then it wandered off to examine the cabin. “You want the truth?”
“Don’t serve nobody to hide from the Devil.”
“The Devil.” He scratched his cheek on a humorless chuckle. “That would be me. It takes a rare man to run away from home at thirty-three, cursing everyone within earshot on his way out. I swore I’d never step foot on Collier land again.”
“But you’re here now.”
Knots formed at the hinges of his jaw. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped his teeth together.
On its own, her hand reached for his arm, offering to return some of the comfort he’d given. He pulled away. “Go home, Ben. Home and family are blessin’s.”
He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. Even so, when he brushed by her, his words emerged as a harsh rasp. “There’s nothing to go home to. I slammed that door myself.”
****
By the time Ben reined in Saber, the knots in his gut and jaw had slackened. He kept the horse moving, to cool him off. Cool them both off.
The gelding was sound, thank God. At least one of them made it through four years of hellfire with minimal burns.
He patted Saber’s neck. “Good to have you back, fella.”
The blood-bay nodded and blew.
Ben chuckled. “Let’s head for h—” The amusement evaporated on a blink. “The cabin.” Maggie’s cabin.
Simple, unsophisticated Maggie. Not an ounce of guile in her anywhere. Maybe that’s why she knocked him off-kilter. Those warm-cognac eyes looked straight into his soul…and saw every self-inflicted scar.
He reined Saber around. The horse danced and tugged at the bit.
Ben held him back. “Uh-uh. I think you’ve had enough for today.”
The gelding grumbled but settled into a steady walk. Ben studied the trees, the grass, the green scent trapped in the humid air. The way the setting sun painted the sky with bold strokes of gold and red, fading into a blanket of stars.
Where were the longhorns? He hadn’t seen a single head since crossing the bayou almost a month ago. Quail, rabbits, snakes…a gator…but no cattle. Not even tracks.
The knot took another hitch in his gut.
On a sweep to the right, a glimmer of white beneath an oak caught his eye. Bones, maybe. Even bones would be evidence. He reined Saber toward the tree.
Not bones. Ben stepped from his saddle and knelt beside the crude, crossed boards bleached by the sun. Whose grave would be all the way out here?
He brushed away dirt and read the letters scratched into the wood.
Declan Fannin, 1864.
Chapter Five
Pounding on the door yanked Maggie bolt upright in the bed.
“Maggie!”
Ben? For pity’s sake, what had him so riled? She shoved her heart back into place, slipped from beneath the thin sheet, and padded across the floor.
The banging recommenced.
“You’re gonna break your hand.” She lifted her dress from a nail on the wall. “I ain’t decent.”
His mocking hiss sliced through the wood. “You ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen before. Open up.”
“I ain’t openin’ nothin’ ’til you settle down.”
Agitated steps tromped from one end of the porch to the other and back—twice—while she pulled the calico over her head.
When the heavy tread stopped, she leaned her forehead against the knotty wood and smoothed her tone. “Are you settled?”
“I am.” While the words were not quite calm, at least they no longer threatened to crumble the mortar.