Page 32 of In Honor’s Defense

He picked them up and examined the spines. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne and James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. Inside the front cover of each, a name was written in a small, tidy hand—Damaris Baxter. Books from her private collection. Ones she’d obviously selected with care. Books that would appeal to a wild, adventuring soul. The corners showed wear, and the spines sported creases. These were not titles collected to look good on a shelf. She’d read them. Multiple times, he’d guess. Perhaps the prim and proper Damaris Baxter had a bit of a wild, adventuring soul herself.

The thought made him smile as he stepped away from the table to admire the last piece of her handiwork.

In the middle of the wall across from his bunk, in the space between his sitting area and the pegs for his clothes, hung the most remarkable item of all. A framed needlework sampler, signed with the initials DB and the date of 1894. A little house made of x-shaped stitches sat near the bottom of the picture with a road leading out to the edge of the frame. Trees and bushes dotted the linen landscape, while embroidered flowers formed a border around the perimeter.

In the center, she’d stitched a verse, one that made his chest squeeze.

Choose you this day

whom ye will serve.

But as for me and my house,

we will serve the Lord.

—Joshua 24:15

Me and my house. Everyday words, yet they carried such profound meaning. A household. A family. People under his protection. People for whom he was responsible. People he loved and who loved him in return.

Since the day he’d left home, he’d only ever been responsible for himself. Yes, he’d looked out for his fellow cavalry troopers while in the army and later his Horsemen brothers, but they were grown men, in charge of their own lives.

He had no use for any other family. They’d just steal his freedom and tie him down. And what if he ended up like his old man? Unable to control his temper. Cruel. Abusive. Or what if he grew weary of the fetters and just up and left one day like his ma had?

But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.

The verse rose up in warning, the last word ringing in his ears like a prophetic accusation.

Luke shook his head. Nope. It didn’t matter how attractive she made it look with her homey touches and thoughtful gestures. The family life was not for him.

She deserved better than his sorry hide, anyway.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”

Luke’s head swiveled toward the stall opening so fast, his brain felt like it bounced off the inside of his skull. His head started to throb.

Damaris stood in the doorway, dressed in a work apron over the same dark blue skirt and white blouse she’d had on this morning. Yet for some reason, he felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. Everything about her seemed new.

When he stared at her without saying anything, her gaze dipped down to the floor, and her hands twisted inside the blanket she held.

Man, but she was somethin’. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that called to him, but there was no denying that she did. She wasn’t petite and curvy like the women most men considered beauties. Nor was she bold and brimming with a confidence that would draw a man’s attention and appreciation. She was simply . . . Damaris. Quiet, kind, and exceedingly generous. And despite his resolve to ignore all thoughts of households and settling down, when he looked at her, he found it difficult to think of anything else.

Finally, she looked back up at him, the slash of her brows arching in confusion. “Are you all right?” She laid the blanket on the bed and took a step closer to him. “Are your injuries paining you? I could brew some willow bark tea or—”

“I’m fine.” Luke tried to smile but couldn’t seem to manage it with so many emotions churning inside him. “It’s just . . . this.” He gestured to the miracle she’d created in the middle of a barn. “No one’s ever . . .” What? Made him a home? He couldn’t say that. Even if it were true. He settled for, “Thank you.”

A pretty pink color flushed her cheeks as her warm brown eyes lit with pleasure. “You’re welcome. And you’re welcome . . . here.” She ducked her face away from him to fiddle with the blanket on the edge of the bed. “This stall just seemed so inhospitable and cold. I didn’t want you to feel like you were being banished. You’re a hero to us, you know.” Her gaze darted his direction, almost meeting his eyes before it skittered back to the blanket. “A few little items to brighten the space and add to your comfort while you recover seemed the least I could do.”

“I’ve been in hotel rooms that weren’t half this fine.”

Her smile widened at his praise. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it?” he scoffed. “You’ve gone and ruined me for all future bunkhouse life.”

Something shifted in her eyes. She peered at him as if plumbing his depths. “Is that how you see your future? A series of bunkhouses?”

He shrugged off the question, as if it didn’t challenge everything he believed about himself. “It’s what I know. First the cavalry, then the Horsemen. Even my quarters at Gringolet are more bunkhouse than cabin.”

“And you’ve never longed for more?”