River to Cross, A by Yvonne Harris

apparently. He stared at his cards, trying to forget her.
    She wasn’t his type, anyway. She was a senator’s daughter and spoiled rotten. He knew that the first time he saw her picture. Grimly he set his teeth together. Everything he did with her, he did all wrong. He’d become short-tempered, disorganized, and more than a little rough around the edges because he knew she didn’t like it. And yet he found one excuse after another to hang around her. It made no sense.
    He dragged a hand down his face.
    And if she hates you now, just wait till she finds out about you and her brother.
    She was smart, he’d give her that. He always did like smart women. His mother taught him that. She was a schoolteacher in Greensburg, outside San Antonio. Too smart to have married Harvey, his stepfather, but she’d married him anyway.
    Pregnant with Jake, his mother had wanted a name for her unborn child. She wanted better for her baby, even if it meant a poor marriage for herself. Jake’s real father, a Deputy U.S. Marshal, had been killed two weeks before their wedding—shot in the back by a convicted bank robber.
    A rush of sympathy tore through Jake for a towheaded little boy with hair in his eyes whose stepfather hated him. Every time he climbed onto his lap, Harvey set him down firmly on the floor, saying, “Stay offa me, kid.”
    And Jake had cried.
    His throat tightened now, remembering. He shook his head and forced the gloom away. This wasn’t like him at all. He frowned at his coffee.
    The three men played cards for an hour, the other two laughing, having a good time. Normally a good player, Jake lost one hand after another. Time and again, someone refilled his coffee cup. Though he said little, he was glad they were there. Like most military men, he liked the bonding and camaraderie of fellow soldiers. Gus and Fred were ex-cavalry, too. Rangers, especially, looked after each other in ways other men never did. With another Ranger, you always knew where you stood.
    Men were predictable.
    Sometime around midnight, when he fanned his cards, Jake realized he couldn’t tell a club from a spade. Head whirling, he tossed them down. “Count me out. I’m so tired, I can’t see straight.”
    He struggled to his feet and went weaving off into the darkness. Twice he stumbled. It took concentration just to place one foot in front of the other. Then he tripped and found himself on his knees on the cave floor. In the dim glow of a lantern, the bed sacks and blankets were just ahead.
    It was too much effort to get up. He crawled the last few feet to the bed sacks and pitched forward onto the first one he came to.
    “Wrong bed, Captain,” a high, sharp voice cut through the dark.
    “You ’sleep, ’Lizabeth?”
    “Not anymore.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “You’re still mad because I didn’t tell you.” He rolled onto his back and threw an arm out. “Oops. What are you doing here?”
    Elizabeth shoved the heavy arm off her midsection and sat up. “This is my bed, not yours.” She turned her face away. “Phew, you’re drunk.”
    “Am I?” He blew out a long sigh. “You may be right.”
    “Go to your own bed. Now!”
    “I’m going, I’m going. Where is it?”
    He tried to push himself up and sprawled onto his face instead. His nose flattened against the blanket. The world lurched into a slow spin. He winced and closed his eyes to stop the whirling.
    In seconds, he was asleep.

     
    Shortly before Elizabeth woke up the next morning, Jake went outside and stuck his head in a bucket of cold water, but it didn’t help. He’d had only a few hours’ sleep and it showed in the lines of his face. Weary, he rubbed his face with both hands and returned to the cave to finish getting dressed.
    The dull, throbbing headache that had woken him that morning was thumping his ears like a bass drum, and his mouth tasted like old socks. Worse, he’d made a fool of himself last night, collapsing onto Elizabeth’s bed