Читать книгу Winning the Widow's Heart - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Jack had an idea where to find the weeping girl. He crept through the barn, his boots silenced by the hay strewn over the floor. He should be saddling Midnight instead of chasing down the source of those muffled sobs, but his conscience drove him forward against his good sense.

Dust motes stirred in the shaft of light sluicing through the hayloft. The wind had blown the door open almost half a foot. No wonder he’d nearly frozen to death these past two nights. In his haste to escape Jo’s trap, he hadn’t fully latched the hayloft. He’d been so cold he’d almost hunkered down next to the milk cow for warmth.

He added another chore to his growing list. Better for him to climb that rickety ladder than risk having one of the women break a leg. The third rung from the top was nearly rotted through. Unfortunately, sealing his impromptu exit had to wait until he dealt with his current problem.

Stalling, Jack lifted his shoulders and stretched, easing the cramps from sleeping on the hard-packed floor. He tugged his gloves over his exposed wrists. The barn had given him shelter and little else. A feather bed in town called to him like a prayer.

He peered into the first stall, his gaze meeting the sloe-eyed stare of the caramel-colored milk cow. He inched his way to the second stall, glancing over the half door. Jo huddled in the corner, her thin arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead pressed against her bent knees. Two long braids brushed against the tops of her boots.

Midnight whinnied, stretching a velvety nose out the last enclosure. Jack saluted his companion with a finger to his brow. “Soon, I promise.”

The girl jerked upright, her face averted.

Jack rested his elbows on the half door, chafing at the delay. He adjusted his hat forward before reminding himself this wasn’t an interrogation, then set the brim back on his head in the “I’m friendly and approachable” position.

He didn’t even know what was wrong, let alone how to fix the problem. Once again he cursed the mistake that had led him here. Why hadn’t this homestead been teeming with hardened outlaws instead of weeping women?

He recalled Jo’s mention of influenza. She was probably just concerned over her ailing family. Jack added the sheriff’s failure to inform him of the influenza outbreak to his growing list of gripes against the incompetent lawman.

Sucking in a breath of a chill air to fortify himself, he contemplated his strategy. “Something bothering you?”

“Nope.”

Jack bit back a curse. Didn’t women love to talk? That’s what all the fellows complained about, anyway.

As much as he’d like to turn tail and run, his feet refused to move. Frustrated, he reached into the stall, yanked a length of straw from a tightly cinched bale and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems like there’s something bothering you.”

She swiped her nose with an exaggerated sniffle. “You’re touched in the head, Ranger.”

The spark in her voice encouraged him. Rage was an emotion he understood, and inspiring anger in a touchy female was easier than shooting tin cans off a flat stump. “Then why are you crying?”

She threw him a withering glare. “I ain’t no weeping female, so why don’t you do something useful, like ride on out of here?”

“Maybe I will.”

Undaunted by her harsh words, he continued to twirl the hay between his fingers. A chicken flapped through the barn, pecking at the dirt around Jack’s feet. He let the oppressive silence hang between them. People generally didn’t like silence. Most folks would rather fill up an empty space, even if that space was better left empty.

Jo kept quiet, a trait that won Jack’s increasing admiration. At least she wasn’t crying anymore, another positive sign. If she didn’t want to talk, then he sure wasn’t going to force the situation. Looked as if he was going to make it to town before lunch, after all.

She bumped her hand down the length of one dark braid, her gaze focused on the hay beneath her feet. “Mrs. Cole says you were chasing bank robbers when you barged in.” She shot him a sideways glance. “What if you make another mistake? What if someone gets hurt?”

His fingers stilled. He had the uneasy sensation this conversation had nothing to do with bank robbers. “You make a mistake, you make amends. That’s all the good Lord asks of us.”

“How do you make amends for lying?”

He busted the straw in two pieces. Everybody lied, he reminded himself. Just not for the same reasons. “You make up for lying by telling the truth. You wanna start now?”

“I told Mrs. Cole I could deliver that baby. But I couldn’t.” Her chin quivered. “I was so scared I wanted to run away.”

Relief shuddered through him. He’d been expecting to hear something much worse. She was barely more than a child herself, no wonder she’d been terrified. He was making a fast slide past his thirtieth year, and he’d considered running away himself. “You delivered a baby. That’s a grave responsibility. Being scared doesn’t mean you lied, just means you’re human.”

“You ever get scared?”

“Every day.” He barked out a laugh. “You wanna know a secret?”

She scrambled to her feet, brushing at the baggy wool trousers tucked into the tops of her sturdy boots. A voluminous coat in a dusty shade of gray completed the tomboy uniform. She flipped the braid she’d been worrying over one shoulder.

Her clear, green eyes searched his face. “What secret?”

“Truth is, I might have beaten you to the door. I wanted to hightail it out of that room faster than a jackrabbit out of a wolf den.”

“Truly?”

He chuckled. How many times had he done the same? Judged someone’s face, watching for subtle hints to test the sincerity of their answers? “I was terrified.”

Midnight butted against the neighboring stall, reminding Jack of his purpose, of the unfinished business weighing on his conscience.

As Jo absorbed his confession, her shoulders relaxed.

He mentally patted himself on the back for his inspired handling of the situation. A few more words of assurance to wrap things up, and he could leave. He’d have to regroup in Cimarron Springs and interview the sheriff once more. Judging by the lawman’s lazy work habits, the task of gathering information was going to take all afternoon, further postponing his trip.

He’d decided to visit Wichita earlier that morning. Every two-bit thief in Kansas wound up there at some point or another. The frontier city was the key to locating the outlaw, Bud Shaw.

“You’re a brave girl for sticking it out,” he encouraged.

He’d settled Jo’s fears. He’d be in Cimarron Springs by this afternoon.

Jo looked him up and down. “You still chasing them outlaws?”

“Outlaw. There’s only one left.”

“What happened to the rest? How many were there all together? Do you always chase outlaws?”

Jack held up a hand, halting the deluge of questions. “There were three all together. They shot a…they shot a woman during a robbery in Texas. On their way out of town, the sheriff gut shot one of them, a man named Slim Joe.”

“Did he die?” she asked eagerly.

“That kind of wound doesn’t kill a person right off. Slim Joe had a lot of time to talk. He turned over his partners, Pencil Pete and Bud Shaw. We caught up with Pencil Pete right off and threw him in jail. Then we found Bud Shaw. Except, well, I think we made a mistake.”

“Then Bud Shaw isn’t one of the outlaws?”

“I think there are two men named Bud Shaw. I think the outlaw decided to take advantage of a man with the same name, and frame him.”

Jack didn’t want to expand, he’d already said more than he intended. Unease itched beneath his skin. There were two Bud Shaws, of that much he was certain. He’d discovered too much evidence to refute the fact in his own mind. Just not enough to convince the judge.

Jo glanced at him, her expression skeptical. “But what if something else does go wrong?”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.” Jack threw up his hands. “Why are you worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet?”

“What if you can’t find him? What then?”

“Standing around here talking about the future ain’t gonna change anything. Why solve a problem before it happens?”

“Don’t get all riled up, Ranger. You’re spooking the animals.”

Jack pressed the brim of his hat tighter to his head with both hands. Women confounded him. He had one female concerned about naming a baby that was too young to answer, and another looking for a solution to a problem that hadn’t yet occurred. What was a man to do?

Gritting his teeth, he forced a smile. “Well, you did real good delivering that baby.”

“Better than you. I thought you were going to throw up.”

“So did I,” he retorted, his voice more forceful than necessary.

She tossed back her head and laughed at his shouted confession. Jack scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Her infectious laugh soon had him chuckling. The sound rumbled low in his chest, rusty and neglected, then bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly laughed, especially at himself.

He used to laugh with his brothers all the time—when they weren’t beating the tar out of each other. They’d roll around in the dirt and blood, bent on killing each other, until one of them said something smart-alecky and the whole group erupted into raucous laughter. He missed that. Missed the camaraderie of his family.

Things had changed after their pa’s death. His older brothers had ceased brawling, and started slicking back their hair. Weddings had followed, and then a new niece or nephew every year after. His mother had reveled in her role as grandmother before she’d died. Lord knew they’d all been lost without her. Jack was too young to take over the ranch by himself, and too old to be ordered around by his brothers.

He’d joined the Texas Rangers instead, and Doreen had supported his decision. Jack pictured his sister-in-law the last time he’d seen her. How the white-linen pillow had framed her ashen face, the growing pool of red seeping through the bandages.

His smile waned. Three months, and he wasn’t any closer to catching the real Bud Shaw than the day he’d ridden out of town. He’d failed the one person who had always believed in him.

“You okay, Ranger?” Jo asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“You look like someone just walked over your grave.”

“Not mine,” he growled.

He’d crushed all the joy from their exchange, but he didn’t care. “How far does a man have to go to find some peace around here?”

He pivoted on his heel, stalking out of the barn. The sooner he brought the right man to justice, the better.

* * *

Elizabeth hoisted the empty laundry basket onto the bed. Her weakened body protested the exertion. The past two days had been so chaotic, so full of change, she craved a task to ground her. A mindless chore. Something familiar and comforting.

She turned, catching her disheveled reflection in the looking glass above the dresser.

“Oh, my,” she groaned.

Her hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink in stark contrast to her pale face. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked no better than one of the beggars she used to pass on her way to work in the city. She lifted her brush from the dresser. Tugging the bristles through the snarls, she worked the knots loose. The heavy mass soon smoothed and shined.

Elizabeth didn’t approve of vanity, but even she had to admit her hair was pretty. She had the same blond hair as her mother, thick and long. Wispy tendrils usually framed her face, falling in soft curls around her cheeks. The past days’ toil had left her forlorn ringlets drooping and lifeless. She’d love nothing more than another thorough washing and a decadent soak in the galvanized tub, but that would have to wait.

She braided her long strands with practiced fingers, twisting the coil over the top of her head and securing the thick rope with pins. She rubbed her lips together to add a flush of color, unsure why she bothered. There was no one here to care about her appearance, least of all her sleepy daughter.

The extra effort buoyed her spirits, though, and she needed all her mustered strength to face the mess the Ranger had surely made while she’d been laid up.

She reached behind her for the basket, her gaze drawn to Will’s trunk. The domed black chest sat just where he’d left it six months ago. He’d always been possessive of the battered piece of luggage. He never opened the lid in her presence, and he kept the hinge securely locked when he was away.

In the early days of their marriage she’d been obsessed with the contents, curious as to why he kept secrets from her. When the undertaker had delivered Will’s personal belongings in a wooden crate, she’d expected to find a key.

Instead, the grim-faced undertaker had ignobly presented her with his grim bounty. An enormous sum of cash carelessly wadded together and secured with a band. The funds for Will’s escape from domestic responsibilities.

Later, at the funeral, the undertaker had looked her up and down, suspicion in his lifeless gray eyes. The amount of money had been too excessive for a humble railroad worker, especially given Will’s propensity for spending his paychecks before the ink had dried on the paper. Only a cheat could have acquired that much money, the undertaker’s eyes seemed to accuse.

She’d decided then and there that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. From that moment on, she lost all desire to peer into the trunk. The more details she discovered about Will’s hazy past, the less certain she became of herself, of her judgment. By opening the trunk, she risked opening wounds that had only just begun to heal. Later, when she wasn’t feeling so fragile, she’d delve into the skeletons he’d left behind during his hasty exit.

While Rachel dozed, she lined the laundry basket with another patchwork quilt she’d sewed especially for the baby, then laid the swaddled infant snuggly inside.

“A basket and a drawer.” Elizabeth clicked her tongue. “We should have named you Laundry Day instead of Rachel Rose.”

The baby blinked, her somber gaze trusting and innocent. A disarming tide of emotion rolled over Elizabeth. The awesome responsibility of shepherding this new life into the harsh world stunned her once again. She didn’t know anything about babies. The years before her job at the bakery and then her marriage had been spent in an orphanage where the children were segregated by age.

While most of the older girls had chosen to work with the infants, Elizabeth had taken a job in the kitchens. Seeing those helpless babies, abandoned and alone, had been unbearable. She shuddered at the memory of sparse iron beds lined up against cold, bleak walls. The endless rules and constant chores. Thank heaven Rachel Rose would never have to suffer that life.

Elizabeth tipped her head to the timbered ceiling. “I think I know what you were trying to tell me. I was praying for myself when I should have been praying for others.”

God had never been a presence in her life. Maybe that’s why He hadn’t answered her prayers. Mrs. Peabody from the orphanage had marched them to church on Sundays, their smocks pressed and their hair brushed smooth, but the service had been in Latin. Though Elizabeth had been entranced by the sheer beauty of the church, she’d never understood the words.

She’d been anxious to attend a service in Cimarron. Unfortunately, despite his earlier pious claims, Will had harbored an aversion to churches. They’d even been married by a justice of the peace. A ceremony so rushed, she’d barely registered the event before Will had whisked her to the train depot and settled them on a Pullman car bound for Kansas.

Elizabeth shook off the unsettling memories. Living in the past was a dull and lonely business. One thing was for certain, she’d never trust another man until she had seen a true test of his character.

She lifted Rachel’s basket, then marched to the kitchen, her weary body braced for a full day of scrubbing. She raised her head, jerking to a halt. Every surface shined. Even the copper kettle gleamed in a shaft of light streaming through the clear glass windowpanes freed from the dimming oilcloth.

Her eyes wide, Elizabeth glanced around the room. Jo must have been up all night to have accomplished such a feat. The brightly polished tin pots and pans hanging against the wall had been neatly arranged by size.

Setting Rachel on the worktable before the stove, Elizabeth made a note to give the girl extra wages this week. Will’s money might as well benefit someone deserving of the blessing.

While she admired the spotless kitchen, Mr. Elder shouldered his way through the back door, his arms full of split wood, his hat set low on his head. A gust of frosty air swept a dusting of snow in his wake.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Elizabeth blurted, astonished to find her heart thumping against her ribs. Certainly she wasn’t afraid of him any longer. He’d shown himself to be honorable, if a tad overbearing. Heaven knew he’d had more than ample opportunity to take advantage of them.

His silver star caught the sun, reflecting light. The sight of the lawman’s badge caused the memory of the sheriff’s threats to explode in her head. There was more than one person in Cimarron Springs who’d like to recoup their losses with the sale of her belongings. Will had been a gambler, and everyone in town had lost money or property to him at one time or another. Yet despite the sheriff’s threat to confiscate her property, he’d been too lazy to prove his suspicions.

She didn’t need him spurred into action by another lawman.

Jack wiped his feet on the rag rug before stepping into the room. He jostled the wood in his hands for a better grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I had some chores left.” He jerked his head in the direction of the splintered hinges.

“That’s very kind of you, but there’s really no need… .”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment. She’d thought Will handsome, but her late husband paled in comparison to Mr. Elder. While Will had been fair with washed-out blue eyes, the Ranger’s features were bold, exaggerated, not at all perfect. His crooked nose indicated he’d broken it, more than once judging by the flattened bone. A faded scar ran the length of his strong jaw, visible through the stubble shadowing his chin. Deep lines creased his forehead between the dark slash of his eyebrows.

Taken separately, the imperfections should have lessened his attraction, but each one of those minor flaws worked together to lend him a rugged, earthy appearance. His scars revealed a man who had been tested and lived to tell the tale. The realization sent a tingle of apprehension down her spine. She sensed the Ranger’s restless need to leave, his barely leashed discontent, even while he lingered, making minor repairs he might have abandoned with impunity. The discrepancy confused her.

Unsure what else to say, she tore her gaze away. She opened the oven door, and stoked the scarlet embers before setting a pan on the stove and pouring in a measure of fresh milk to warm.

Mr. Elder trudged through the kitchen three more times while she arranged her workspace, his arms heaped with a new batch of wood on each trip. She dusted her hands together and shook her head. At this rate, she wouldn’t need to refill the woodpile until next fall.

Grasping a tin scoop, she heaped flour along with two generous pinches of salt into an enormous creamware bowl, then pressed her fingers into the mound, digging a hole. After brushing her hands on her apron, she reached into the pie safe and pinched off a corner of yeast, crumbling the moist leaven into the center of the flour. With the milk properly scalded, she added a dollop of bacon grease, stirring until the ingredients melted together.

While the mixture cooled, she wiped down the table with a damp rag. Once she’d gingerly tapped the side of the pan to ensure a lukewarm temperature, she poured the thickened milk into the well of flour. Waiting for the yeast to dissolve, she gradually added a generous handful of sugar.

The Texas Ranger pounded on the back door as she worked. Elizabeth winced at the hammering. Rachel barely stirred.

He paused his work at one point, stepping into the snug kitchen with his hat in his hands. “Is the noise too much? Am I disturbing your daughter?”

Her heart jolted. Hearing someone else call Rachel her daughter made the whole experience real. This is my family. Something no one could take away. “Looks like this child would sleep through dynamite.”

He gestured toward her face. “You’ve got a bit of, umm, flour on your…”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her warm cheek. She scrubbed at the mark. “I didn’t notice.”

His own cheeks red and chapped with cold, he cleared his throat with a curt nod, then backed away to resume his work inside. She took in his appearance, smiling at the way his expensive wool coat with a fresh tear in the shoulder stretched over his broad shoulders. He was a large man with an enormous chest tapering down to a lean waist, but he kept a respectful distance, never using his size to intimidate.

He glanced over his shoulder on his way out, catching her curious regard.

Confused by the fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she ducked her head to tighten the apron around her waist. With the Ranger gone, she focused her attention on the liquid mixture foaming merrily in the center of the flour. Satisfied she’d waited long enough for the yeast to develop, she folded in the dry ingredients, invigorated by the familiar process. Making bread was her favorite chore.

She loved the silky texture of the flour, the way the dough gradually came together beneath the heels of her hands to form a smooth, elastic ball. The way the yeast smelled like a summer’s day, warm and comforting.

Mr. Elder returned again, his saddlebags slung over his left shoulder. He’d packed to leave. To her chagrin, that curious fluttering resumed.

He snatched off his hat. “I replaced the hinges. You shouldn’t have any problems.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I cut the stumps for kindling.”

“Thank you.”

An emotion she couldn’t quite read flitted across his face. “Well, then. I filled the woodpile in the parlor.”

The barren room was hardly a parlor, but she appreciated his concern. “I saw. Was there any room left to sit?”

He flashed a lopsided grin. Not the charming smirk he’d plastered on his face that first night to put her at ease, but a genuine smile. “Just enough.”

She was struck by how young he looked without his usual scowl. His abashed expression softened the lines of his face, smoothing the customary crease of worry between his eyebrows. His hair wasn’t black, as she’d supposed that first night, but more of a deep chocolate. His hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of gold around the irises, lightening the somber effect of his austere demeanor.

She was unaccustomed to such relaxed behavior in a man. Though he’d been delayed on his journey, he didn’t prowl around the house like a caged animal, or burst into action with unleashed energy. He held himself straight and tall. Even when he feigned casual indifference, she sensed a stiffness in his spine, a certain resolve in his stance.

A sudden need to capture this moment overwhelmed her. She wanted to remember the way he circled the brim of his hat in his hands, the way he kept peeking at Rachel when he thought she wasn’t looking.

There had been so few moments in her life she had tucked away, saving like priceless treasurers. Why this one? She glanced at Rachel Rose, swaddled in peaceful slumber. This unfamiliar emotion bubbling to the surface, this sensation of warmth and safety wrapping around her like a velvet cloak must be attached to the infant.

Elizabeth floundered for something to say, anxious to avoid the troublesome feelings Mr. Elder aroused. It was best he left now, before she was disillusioned, before time and familiarity revealed the cracks in his facade.

He stuck his hat on his head, lowering the brim to shield his eyes. “I should be going.”

Elizabeth busied herself with separating the dough. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Someday I’ll tell Rachel the story of her birth. How you thought I was a bank robber.”

They both chuckled, her own forced laugh hollow and strained.

When the awkward silence fell once more, he peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “When I tell the boys this story, I’ll be painting a more heroic picture of myself.”

“You did just fine, Mr. Elder.”

“After all we’ve been through, I think you can call me Jack.”

Suddenly shy, she met his sheepish gaze. The name suited him. It was strong and solid. Elizabeth let her gaze skitter away from those compassionate, hazel eyes. “Goodbye, Jack.”

“Goodbye,” he replied. “I’ll just be going.”

Neither of them moved.

A sharp sorrow robbed her of breath. She attacked her kneading with renewed vigor.

“Jack,” she spoke, prolonging the moment, “can you check on Jo? I don’t know what’s taking her so long with chores.”

“I saw her in the barn earlier.” His boots scuffed the floor.

Elizabeth suppressed a grin. He probably didn’t even notice his own nervous fidget, the boot scuffing that reminded her of a young boy, but she found the gesture charming.

Her somber mood lightened like a leavened pastry. “Tell Jo I’m making bread.”

She squelched the urge to slap her forehead. Of course she was making bread. Why had she said such a silly thing? What was wrong with her? She was behaving like a giddy schoolgirl.

Jack cleared his throat. “I will.”

“Where will you go after this?”

She didn’t even know why she’d asked, except that talking meant he wasn’t leaving just yet, and she missed the company of another adult.

“I’ve got to see the sheriff.”

Her effervescent mood plummeted. Clearing her throat, she stood up straighter. “Tell him we’re doing fine. Just fine.”

He nodded.

Another moment laden with unspoken words passed between them. She grasped for an elusive farewell, a way to thank him that encompassed her diverse emotions, but no words came. Jack pinched the brim of his hat between two fingers, tipping his head in a parting gesture before the door closed quietly behind him.

She pressed the back of her hand to her brow. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Those pesky, annoying, infuriating tears were clogging her throat once more. What on earth was wrong with her?

A lank strand of hair had fallen across her forehead, and she shook it away with a sigh. She was tired, that was all. Rachel had awakened three times last evening to be fed and changed. All this weeping must be due to her exhaustion.

The growing fatigue pulled her to slump on the stool before the worktable. She didn’t need a man around the house.

Rachel’s face pinched up a like a dried apple, her lips trembling in distress. The infant’s faint mewling reverberated in Elizabeth’s chest.

Better that Jack left now. Keeping this home meant keeping her family together, and a wandering lawman asking questions about her past didn’t bode well. She was glad he was gone. For good. She was doing just fine on her own.

Just fine.

If she repeated the mantra often enough, maybe she’d even believe her own lies.