And he had remembered, after all these years?
She studied her new husband from beneath her lashes. His dark hair fell over his shoulders, and he wore a full beard and mustache. On the side of his face that had been injured, the hair grew unevenly, but the black powder stippling blended in with his dark whiskers, hiding some of the damage. She remembered being so careful of his wounds the first time she had washed and shaved him in the hospital. His beard looked soft and was nicely trimmed, but she missed the strong line of his jaw hidden beneath the whiskers.
His hand stroked Stonewall’s gray and black coat, and he stared past the dog’s head out the window, keeping his good side toward her. She well remembered the breadth of Bowie’s shoulders, his solid frame, as she’d tended him in the hospital, changing his bandages and bedding, feeding him, holding his hand when the pain was too great or the nightmares stalked him.
It was one thing to be his nurse, something else altogether to be his wife, even if only on paper.
How did one make small talk with a new husband? She twisted her gloves in her hands.
“I didn’t know your name was James Bowie. Not until you told Pastor Gates. I always knew you only as Captain Hart.”
“My pa named all of us after famous Texans.”
“Tell me about your family. I know some from when you were in the hospital, but I feel I need a refresher.” And what she knew had come from the fevered wanderings of an injured man who probably didn’t even know he was rambling. Once his fever had broken and he’d come to senses, he’d barely spoken, and then only to her.
The train whistle blew, and with a jerk, they were moving down the track. Her heart rate accelerated along with the train. She’d never been farther from home than a quick trip to Boston once when she was twelve. To think of traveling all the way to Texas…
“There are seven of us brothers. Austin’s the oldest. Tough, a good leader. If things went according to his plans—and they usually do—he should be married by the time we get back to Hartville. Then there’s me. After me is Travis. He’s a doctor, and he married Annie Lawrence, who has a son, Robbie, from her first marriage. Houston is number four, and he’s got a hardware store in town. He’s married to Coralee Culpepper, a neighbor girl he was sweet on before he ran off to California for a few years. He’s seeing to getting you a house built. Should be done by the time we get back.”
Elise blinked. “You had him building a house before you knew if I’d accept your proposal?”
Bowie shrugged. “Figured you’d need a place to live if you said yes. Figured the family could rent it out or use it for a foreman and his family if you said no.”
A house being built, just for her. What would it be like? Big? Small? Far from town? Near his brothers’ homes? So many questions.
Bowie must’ve sensed her interest. “You can shop in Hartville for furniture and rugs and such, or order from a catalog. If you need to, there’s always someone going to Santone. You can go along to shop, or send a list.”
She nodded. Shopping for a houseful of furniture? Her. Elise Rivers … no, Elise Hart now. The ladies at the button factory wouldn’t believe it.
“I’d love to go to town with you and choose things for the house.” Her mind raced with ideas, wondering what his tastes were, if he liked heavy, dark furniture, or if he preferred things more Spartan.
“I don’t go to town. Do as you like with the house. It won’t matter to me.” His flat tone told her to leave the subject for the time being. Such a curious man, kind one moment, cold as snow the next.
“Which brother comes after Houston?”
“Crockett.” Bowie shook his head. “You’ll know him when you see him, because he’s always wearing a loud shirt or bandanna or both. As a kid, he was always getting into scrapes. He’s settled down, a real steady hand, good rancher. Married Jane Haymaker, a neighbor.”
“That’s five.” She held up one hand. “What about the other two?”
“Chisholm is number six. He’s a Texas Ranger. Married a Spanish beauty named Caro. He’s cool-headed in a fight.” Bowie said this as if it was the highest praise he could offer.
“And number seven?”
A slight smile touched Bowie’s lips, a rare occurrence from what Elise could gather. “Hays. Fortune’s Favorite is what Mother used to call him. The ladies think he’s charming, at least from what I hear. He stole a march on all of us and married the new padre’s daughter, Emma, way back last spring. They’re expecting their first child sometime around Christmas.”
“As an only child, I can’t imagine having so many siblings. I hope I can keep everyone straight.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Austin, Bowie, Travis, Houston, Crockett, Chisholm, and Hays. And their wives. And one baby on the way.”
“That I know of, anyway. Could be more. Harts are a prolific breed.”
“Do all you boys look alike?”
His brows came down. “I suppose. We all have dark hair. I’m the tallest.”