sweetest girl this side of the Mississippi. To hear him tell it, Hank's life had been idyllic until the war. Soon after his family left to go fight, the Yankees had come and taken all their livestock.
Clayton had brought his unit there just days later, billeting in Hank's home for the night. The man had been dead-set against it, fearful for the safety of his wife. "There's nothing left," he'd said, though Clayton and Merritt and Ken and Will and the others knew Hank wasn't speaking of his things. He was guarding his woman, and they'd respected that.
The atrocity of Galveston was still fresh in their minds.It had been raining for a week. Clayton hadn't slept in three days. Mud had seeped into what was left of his boots, had embedded itself into every inch of his blistered feet.
One of his men had been shot and was most likely going to lose his arm to gangrene, if they got him to a surgeon at all.There had been no way he was going to make his men stand in the rain for one more minute. "We don't want anything except a dry place to lie down," he'd said. "I promise."
To most men, Clayton's iron will and no-nonsense tone would have instilled fear—or at least a healthy respect.
But instead of cowing, Hank simply crossed his arms over his chest. One skinny frame defending everything he had against a band of seasoned soldiers. "Promises don't mean nothing. Not anymore, they don't."
"They do to me. I'm a man of my word."
Hank had stared hard at him. "If you're a liar, I'll hunt you down."
"If I was a liar, I'd expect you to," Clayton had replied with a level look.
They'd ended up staying five days. Hank's wife Penny doctored Billy's arm, cleaning his wound and placing a poultice on it to draw out the infection. Hank and Clayton had forged a bond over chicory coffee, the Word, and a bushel of wormy apples.
He and his men had left hungry but dry—and with filled souls, which still counted for a lot. As a gift, he left Hank with an extra rifle so he could protect his wife.
Later on, someone had heard that Penny had died of the influenza.
He was surprised Hank remembered him so well. Surely there'd been a hundred more strangers who had passed through his farm before the war ended.
Clayton took Vanessa's elbow and guided her into the hotel. It was beautiful, and a far sight grander than many he'd seen in some time.
Vanessa looked around wide-eyed, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Which, of course, seemed to bring every randy man running.He needed to get that ring on her finger as soon as possible.
"You need some help?" a short, pudgy man said from the counter.
"We need two rooms."
"We ain't got two. You want one?"
From the way the clerk was eyeing Vanessa, Clayton decided it was probably best she stayed near his side. "One room will do," he replied, intentionally making his voice clipped.
The clerk examined him with a new awareness. "Yes, sir," he said, a little more respectfully, before pushing the register in front of him. "Just sign here, if you please."
Clayton signed Captain and Mrs. Clayton Proffitt, then held out a hand for the key. After receiving it, he said, "My wife will need a bath. Have someone take care of that."
The clerk looked over Vanessa with interest. "Most folks use the tub in the back or go to the bathhouse. It's down the way."
There were too many men in this part of the world who'd commit murder for a woman, let alone a beautiful woman like Vanessa. "That won't do. She'll need a hip bath and someone to bring up hot water."
"Sir—"
"Captain," Clayton corrected sharply.
The clerk sighed in resignation. "We'll have it right up.You're in room five."
Grasping her elbow, Clayton glared at the men lounging against old sofas, inspecting his wife a little too closely for his comfort. One or two of the men wore pieces and parts of faded uniforms, whether by necessity or because they couldn't bear to leave memories of the war behind, Clayton didn't know.
However, he did recognize
Clayton had brought his unit there just days later, billeting in Hank's home for the night. The man had been dead-set against it, fearful for the safety of his wife. "There's nothing left," he'd said, though Clayton and Merritt and Ken and Will and the others knew Hank wasn't speaking of his things. He was guarding his woman, and they'd respected that.
The atrocity of Galveston was still fresh in their minds.It had been raining for a week. Clayton hadn't slept in three days. Mud had seeped into what was left of his boots, had embedded itself into every inch of his blistered feet.
One of his men had been shot and was most likely going to lose his arm to gangrene, if they got him to a surgeon at all.There had been no way he was going to make his men stand in the rain for one more minute. "We don't want anything except a dry place to lie down," he'd said. "I promise."
To most men, Clayton's iron will and no-nonsense tone would have instilled fear—or at least a healthy respect.
But instead of cowing, Hank simply crossed his arms over his chest. One skinny frame defending everything he had against a band of seasoned soldiers. "Promises don't mean nothing. Not anymore, they don't."
"They do to me. I'm a man of my word."
Hank had stared hard at him. "If you're a liar, I'll hunt you down."
"If I was a liar, I'd expect you to," Clayton had replied with a level look.
They'd ended up staying five days. Hank's wife Penny doctored Billy's arm, cleaning his wound and placing a poultice on it to draw out the infection. Hank and Clayton had forged a bond over chicory coffee, the Word, and a bushel of wormy apples.
He and his men had left hungry but dry—and with filled souls, which still counted for a lot. As a gift, he left Hank with an extra rifle so he could protect his wife.
Later on, someone had heard that Penny had died of the influenza.
He was surprised Hank remembered him so well. Surely there'd been a hundred more strangers who had passed through his farm before the war ended.
Clayton took Vanessa's elbow and guided her into the hotel. It was beautiful, and a far sight grander than many he'd seen in some time.
Vanessa looked around wide-eyed, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips.
Which, of course, seemed to bring every randy man running.He needed to get that ring on her finger as soon as possible.
"You need some help?" a short, pudgy man said from the counter.
"We need two rooms."
"We ain't got two. You want one?"
From the way the clerk was eyeing Vanessa, Clayton decided it was probably best she stayed near his side. "One room will do," he replied, intentionally making his voice clipped.
The clerk examined him with a new awareness. "Yes, sir," he said, a little more respectfully, before pushing the register in front of him. "Just sign here, if you please."
Clayton signed Captain and Mrs. Clayton Proffitt, then held out a hand for the key. After receiving it, he said, "My wife will need a bath. Have someone take care of that."
The clerk looked over Vanessa with interest. "Most folks use the tub in the back or go to the bathhouse. It's down the way."
There were too many men in this part of the world who'd commit murder for a woman, let alone a beautiful woman like Vanessa. "That won't do. She'll need a hip bath and someone to bring up hot water."
"Sir—"
"Captain," Clayton corrected sharply.
The clerk sighed in resignation. "We'll have it right up.You're in room five."
Grasping her elbow, Clayton glared at the men lounging against old sofas, inspecting his wife a little too closely for his comfort. One or two of the men wore pieces and parts of faded uniforms, whether by necessity or because they couldn't bear to leave memories of the war behind, Clayton didn't know.
However, he did recognize
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