Chapter 12
A shout awakened Hyacinth. She blinked her eyes open to the darkness of night, the rocking of the train, and the steady clatter of the wheels.
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep, but after stewing over the argument with Beckett, she must have eventually tired herself out.
She’d heard him come in not long after she’d turned out the lights, and he’d bedded down nearby as he usually did. She felt bad that she had the whole bed to herself every night and that he had to sleep on the floor.
He’d insisted that he didn’t mind. But for how long would he be satisfied with this arrangement before he was ready for more? After all, their celibacy couldn’t last forever.
Another shout echoed in the train car, followed by mumbling.
It was coming from Beckett.
She shifted and peered over the edge of the bed. In the faint moonlight coming in through the windows, she could make out Beckett’s lanky body on the floor. He was on his back, one hand on his revolver and the other pressed against his chest.
Was he having a nightmare?
From what she could see of his face, his features were taut, and his mouth was pressed into a tight line.
“No!” he called, suddenly thrashing. “No! Stop!” In the next instant, he released an agonized cry, this one seeming to come from deep within him.
He was dreaming. And those dreams were clearly torturing him.
She tossed aside her covers and sat up. The night air was cool against her bare arms and her legs. She really needed to don a robe, but an urgency prodded her to comfort Beckett.
She slid off the bed and knelt beside him.
He was still thrashing as though he was fighting someone—perhaps the demons of his past.
She shouldn’t have pushed him so hard to discuss something he wasn’t ready to talk about.
After all, they’d only been married about a week, and she couldn’t expect him to open up about everything after such a short time.
They still had to build trust before that could happen.
If he never wanted to share about all that bothered him, she would have to accept that too, wouldn’t she?
He’d been right that she hadn’t been forthcoming about herself. How could she ask him to bare his soul when she wasn’t willing to do the same?
She lifted a hand to his face, hesitated, then brushed her fingers across his forehead and into his hair. The brown strands were messy, and she combed them gently back.
His body stilled, but his breathing remained heavy.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. Was her touch calming him?
She smoothed her other hand across his cheek. The layer of scruff was bristly and coarse, but she liked how it felt. She let her fingers make a trail to the other side of his face.
She wasn’t sure how she knew that he’d opened his eyes and was awake, but she could sense it. She skimmed her fingers down his neck and to his chest before laying her hand over his heart and feeling the wild thumping.
“You must have been having a bad dream,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, but he did inhale a deep breath.
While keeping one hand on his heart, she rested the other on his shoulder.
Now that he was awake, she didn’t want to presume that she could caress his face and hair.
Doing so was overly familiar, especially because they hadn’t reached a point where they were having any contact yet.
The only time he touched her was when he was assisting her up or down the train steps or walking with her arm tucked into his.
He seemed to be gathering his wits and trying to make sense of the situation.
“I heard you crying out,” she offered.
He gave a curt shake of his head.
“If you’re all right”—she started to push up—“then I’ll leave you alone.”
His fingers snaked out and captured her hand that she was lifting from his heart. He placed it back down, then laid his on top of hers.
The gesture startled her, and she sat back on her heels again.
For a long moment, the only sound was the ever-present rumbling of the train.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered.
She didn’t need him to offer an explanation to know he was apologizing for earlier in the evening. She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry too.”
“You didn’t do anything. It was all me.”
“That’s not true. I was pushy.”
“Nope, you were just telling me like it is. And I appreciate it.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “Truth is, I’ve got my past buried in the bone yard and haven’t wanted to dig it up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I wanna tell you. You deserve to know what to expect when we get to the Double T.” Beneath her hand, his heart was still thudding hard.
“It’s up to you.” She rubbed her free hand across his shoulder, hoping to lend him her steadiness.
He inhaled deeply. “Ever hear of the Peeler’s War?”
“No.”
“Hide peeling is what we call the killing and skinning of cattle.” He spoke softly. “Rustlers use peeling as a way to steal cattle. They kill and skin the steers on the spot and sell the hides because it’s one of the quickest ways of getting cash from the cattle.”
“It must have been a big problem if it caused a war.”
“Real big.” He seemed to hesitate, then he plunged forward. “Rustling has always been a problem. But in the years after the War of Secession, it got bad.”
“Against your family’s ranch?”
“My pa claimed that we lost some thirty thousand cattle over a four- or five-year span. Course, I later learned he inflated the numbers. But there’s no denying the Double T was hit real hard with the cattle thieving.”
“I guess I can understand why people would be upset about it.”
“Congress finally sent commissioners to investigate the matter. But those fellas are never above being bought out, especially by someone as wealthy as my pa.”
He’d only spoken to her of his pa once, the day he’d explained why he had to get married by his thirtieth birthday. And his statement had been about his death and how it hadn’t come soon enough. “So you didn’t get along with your pa because of how he handled the commissioners?”
Beckett released a mirthless laugh. “He dragged us into a brutal war my last year there, one that gutted us all. But I hated my pa for a whole heap more than that.”
She couldn’t condemn Beckett for his hatred of his pa since she loathed her own father.
“He was a cold man who never showed me a lick of love.” Beckett’s voice held a bitterness she understood all too well.
“I’m sorry, Beckett.” She rubbed his shoulder again. “I can relate.”
He paused and peered up at her. “I reckon you can.”
He already knew all about her father’s gambling and how he’d bargained with a local saloon owner to pay off his debts through his daughters. But she’d never said more about her father, was too embarrassed to discuss him with anyone.
However, with Beckett talking openly about his pa, was it time to push herself to share about her father too?
He was quiet, as though giving her the chance to say more.
She lowered her head. “He never showed me or Vi any real love either. He wasn’t mean or cruel or anything like that. But most of the time, he acted like we didn’t exist, even when he claimed he loved us.”
“Sometimes that’s harder. At least I knew my pa didn’t love me, and I never had to wonder why he didn’t come around.”
The conversation was going to a place that she didn’t like to visit, and she shivered to ward off the old hurts.
He pushed up to his elbow, drew the blanket off himself, and began to drape it over her.
She knew she needed to insist that he keep it, but the body warmth that lingered in the fabric was too hard to resist.
As he situated the blanket around her, the corner fell away. He lifted it again and this time sat up and left his arm behind her back, keeping the blanket in place.
She almost felt like he was holding her, maybe even comforting her.
It was nice, and she allowed herself to relax.
She wanted to ask him what his nightmare had been about.
She suspected it had to do with the war he’d been dragged into with his pa.
But she didn’t want to ruin the coziness of the moment by setting off the bad memories inside him.
Instead, she turned the conversation back to the ranch and his pa. For a little while, he explained how the workers were loyal to the ranch and his family because of the influence of Sargeant and Sunshine Turner and how kind and generous they’d been.
However, apparently Texas had been and still was a lawless place, and the Thorpes and the Turners had many enemies.
In his pa’s and Sargeant’s ruthless drive to expand the ranch, they’d caused conflict with the methods they’d used to acquire land, horses, and cattle.
Beckett hoped to make peace with those who had been hurt.
He wanted to give back land that had been stolen, offer payments for cattle and horses that had been rustled, and make amends to anyone the ranch had harmed.
Beckett also shared about his pa’s insatiable desire for women. He’d had a number of different mistresses, and as a result, Beckett had a half brother and a half sister. While his father had always taken financial care of the illegitimate children, he’d never loved them or interacted with them.
The longer Beckett talked about his pa and the Double T, the more Hyacinth began to understand why he’d kept his past from everyone and why he’d left.
He didn’t have many happy memories there.
The only good ones were about Sunshine, who’d stepped in and raised him like he was her own child.
Sargeant had also been like a father to him.
Even though he’d been stern, he’d been kind and loving toward Beckett—unlike his own pa.
Hyacinth wasn’t sure how long she and Beckett talked, but eventually he reclined against the bed, pulling her against him so that she rested partially on his shoulder and chest. The position was comfortable and warm, and she liked sitting close to him and being honest about their hurts and broken dreams.