next to his wife, punching his fist into the pillow before settling his head upon it.
Closing his eyes, he tried not to think about the female body beside him, just as he tried to ignore his painfully swollen groin.
Finally, by force of sheer will alone, he somehow managed to fall asleep . . . only to enc ounter demons of another sort.
Dark. Deadly. Unrelenting demons.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ben is gone !
Scrambling off the bed, Lydia frantically perused the cramped wagon. Not only was her husband gone, but so were all of his belongings. As best she could recall, he’d stowed his saddlebags in the far corner of the wagon; yet, like his clothes, boots, and Henry rifle, they were missing.
Vanished into thin air.
Trembling, Lydia reached for her day gown and undergarments, her hands automatically going through the morning ritual of tying and buttoning. As she dressed herself, one dismal thought after another clamored for her attention .
These days it was all too easy for a man, particularly a disenchanted one, to head west and disappear into an anonymous, rough-n-tumble existence.
From all accounts, such a life appealed to many men . Ben certainly wouldn’t be the first dissatisfied husband to forsake his wife in so abrupt a manner. And if he didn’t head west, there was always the possibility that he had decided to return to his native Massachusetts. Or perhaps he went to—
It’s all my fault . All of it.
From the very beginning, she’d misjudged her husband, having put him into a pigeonhole that ill-fit him. Mistakenly, she’d cast him as a hale New England farmer, the unflappable sort whose sole care in life revolved around the workings of a plow.
Truly, she could not have been further from the mark.
There was a passion to Ben Strong ; a passion that he constantly stove to keep under control. Yet try as he might, it was there all the same. It was there in his warrior’s temperament, his steely-eyed determination. And in the way that he looked at her as though he meant to devour her.
A man like Ben needed a big, untamed country to claim as his own. Whether he knew it or not, he needed Texas. And she’d wanted to be the one to give it to him. But now she couldn’t because . . . because she chased him away.
Surprised to find tears rolling down her cheeks, Lydia swiped at them with her dress sleeve, too distraught to rummage through her trunk for a handkerchief. On quivering legs, she made her way to the back of the wagon. Shoving the canvas flaps aside, she furtively scanned the area, her worst fear confirmed – her husband was indeed gone.
Tossing her unbound hair over her shoulder, Lydia awkwardly descended the wagon, her heart beating an erratic tattoo, her breath leaving her body in serrated gasps. Completely undone, she made no attempt to curb the tears that coursed her face in a wet, unsightly profusion.
From the other side of the farmyard, Ilsa Schumacher hurried toward her with a steaming coffee pot. Seeing Lydia’s obvious distress, she raised her skirts and quickened the pace.
“Frau Strong, vat is dis matter?”
Lydia, her hand splayed over her heart, struggled to regain her composure. It was a losing battle. “My husband, he’s . . . he’s. . . .”
“Ja, ja, he’s gone to town to buy supplies for der trip.”
Clutching at her dress bodice, relief washed over Lydia like a cleansing rain. “You’re certain that’s where he’s at?”
Ilsa nodded. “Ja. Und vere did you think he might be?”
Believe it or not, on his way to California.
Raising a hand to her lips, Lydia stifled a burst of hysterical laughter.
Oh, thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Tactfully ignoring Lydia’s bedraggled appearance, Ilsa nodded toward the coffee pot. “You slept so late dis morning, I thought you might have need of der coffee.”
“Yes, how thoughtful of you,” Lydia gushed, still feeling the giddy effects of what could only be described as a profound sense of
Closing his eyes, he tried not to think about the female body beside him, just as he tried to ignore his painfully swollen groin.
Finally, by force of sheer will alone, he somehow managed to fall asleep . . . only to enc ounter demons of another sort.
Dark. Deadly. Unrelenting demons.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ben is gone !
Scrambling off the bed, Lydia frantically perused the cramped wagon. Not only was her husband gone, but so were all of his belongings. As best she could recall, he’d stowed his saddlebags in the far corner of the wagon; yet, like his clothes, boots, and Henry rifle, they were missing.
Vanished into thin air.
Trembling, Lydia reached for her day gown and undergarments, her hands automatically going through the morning ritual of tying and buttoning. As she dressed herself, one dismal thought after another clamored for her attention .
These days it was all too easy for a man, particularly a disenchanted one, to head west and disappear into an anonymous, rough-n-tumble existence.
From all accounts, such a life appealed to many men . Ben certainly wouldn’t be the first dissatisfied husband to forsake his wife in so abrupt a manner. And if he didn’t head west, there was always the possibility that he had decided to return to his native Massachusetts. Or perhaps he went to—
It’s all my fault . All of it.
From the very beginning, she’d misjudged her husband, having put him into a pigeonhole that ill-fit him. Mistakenly, she’d cast him as a hale New England farmer, the unflappable sort whose sole care in life revolved around the workings of a plow.
Truly, she could not have been further from the mark.
There was a passion to Ben Strong ; a passion that he constantly stove to keep under control. Yet try as he might, it was there all the same. It was there in his warrior’s temperament, his steely-eyed determination. And in the way that he looked at her as though he meant to devour her.
A man like Ben needed a big, untamed country to claim as his own. Whether he knew it or not, he needed Texas. And she’d wanted to be the one to give it to him. But now she couldn’t because . . . because she chased him away.
Surprised to find tears rolling down her cheeks, Lydia swiped at them with her dress sleeve, too distraught to rummage through her trunk for a handkerchief. On quivering legs, she made her way to the back of the wagon. Shoving the canvas flaps aside, she furtively scanned the area, her worst fear confirmed – her husband was indeed gone.
Tossing her unbound hair over her shoulder, Lydia awkwardly descended the wagon, her heart beating an erratic tattoo, her breath leaving her body in serrated gasps. Completely undone, she made no attempt to curb the tears that coursed her face in a wet, unsightly profusion.
From the other side of the farmyard, Ilsa Schumacher hurried toward her with a steaming coffee pot. Seeing Lydia’s obvious distress, she raised her skirts and quickened the pace.
“Frau Strong, vat is dis matter?”
Lydia, her hand splayed over her heart, struggled to regain her composure. It was a losing battle. “My husband, he’s . . . he’s. . . .”
“Ja, ja, he’s gone to town to buy supplies for der trip.”
Clutching at her dress bodice, relief washed over Lydia like a cleansing rain. “You’re certain that’s where he’s at?”
Ilsa nodded. “Ja. Und vere did you think he might be?”
Believe it or not, on his way to California.
Raising a hand to her lips, Lydia stifled a burst of hysterical laughter.
Oh, thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Tactfully ignoring Lydia’s bedraggled appearance, Ilsa nodded toward the coffee pot. “You slept so late dis morning, I thought you might have need of der coffee.”
“Yes, how thoughtful of you,” Lydia gushed, still feeling the giddy effects of what could only be described as a profound sense of
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