Winning the Widow's Heart Page 13

  From the corner of her eye, she studied the objects. Fear pooled in her stomach. Another explanation dawned on her, one that she didn’t want to share. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.”

  The more she thought about it, the more certain she become of the objects’ origins. If Will had won the personal items on one of his many gambling binges, he wouldn’t have told her. He’d known she didn’t approve of his card playing. But like everything else in their brief marriage, her opinion hadn’t mattered. He’d done as he pleased, no matter how much his actions hurt her.

  Another worry pressed on her. She recalled how the sheriff had threatened to seize her land if he found out the property was purchased with illegal money. Gambling wasn’t illegal, but cheating was—and most people in town were suspicious of Will’s propensity for winning.

  Before Will’s death she’d gone to the mercantile and the clerk had refused to serve her. The man was angry because Will had won his best horse in a card game. Fearful of another tense encounter, she’d curbed her trips to town.

  Jack lifted a watch. “If they don’t belong to you, I’ll turn them over to the sheriff. This looks mighty expensive. Someone is missing this fancy piece.”

  Elizabeth thrust out her hands. “No!”

  This was proof, leverage to use against her. If she lost her home, the land, she lost everything.

  Guilt and fury ground together in her stomach. She couldn’t afford to have the Texas Ranger around any longer. He had to leave. Her decision made, she tugged on her mittens. She’d handle this on her own. She didn’t care how much Jack’s eyes reminded her of the flaxen and emerald grasses sweeping across the plains in spring.

  She pointed a finger at him, the irritated gesture lost in her enveloping mittens. “I expect you to be gone in one hour.”

  “Why are you mad at me?” he asked, his tone placating. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “You’re too stubborn for your own good, Elizabeth Cole.”

  “Maybe I am, but it’s my decision. And I’m asking you to leave.”

  “I have a job to do, and no one is going to stand in my way. Not even you.”

  “Your job has nothing to do with us. Coming here was an accident. A mistake.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.”

  Fear swept over her like a chill wind. “All the more reason you should go.”

  She slammed the door behind her.

  * * *

  Jack rested his fisted hand on the bedrail while he inhaled the lingering scent of lavender and vanilla. Last night, he’d asked himself the same questions Elizabeth had demanded of him. What was his purpose? Were his suspicions founded in logic, or based on emotion? Why was he still here when the widow’s problems were none of his concern? More than once he’d packed his bags, preparing to leave, only to find his footsteps dragging.

  The truth, he’d finally admitted to himself, was that he didn’t know why he was still here. He thought he’d conditioned himself to ignore petty human emotions, but all his conditioning had deserted him. The widow’s needs had become his own. Her fears had become his fears. Her fate had become his responsibility. He was torn between honor and affection.

  He finally understood his purpose.

  When a bank was robbed, the outlaws often took more than money. They stole from the patrons, as well. Valuables such as watches, rings and pocket change. Exactly the sort of items floating around in that box. He opened the lid and lifted out the four watches. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  He’d tracked the outlaw to Cimarron Springs, and the trail had grown cold at the widow’s front door. He’d tracked a bay mustang and a man with cold eyes and a charming smile from Colorado to Kansas. From one livery to another he’d relentlessly pursued his prey. His instincts had led him here for a reason, and Elizabeth had tripped right over that reason.

  Jack flung open the heavy stove door and tossed another log onto the dwindling fire. The widow feared the sheriff, and Jack was starting to wonder why.

  Like other men smelled trouble, Jack recognized the distinct odor of fear. He didn’t think the widow knew the origin of the items, but she knew enough to be frightened.

  Her late husband must have been involved with the outlaws. The question remained, how much did she know? Elizabeth didn’t strike him as the kind of woman to condone that sort of activity. Then again, people did all sorts of things he’d never thought possible. Could he really trust her?

  Had his emotions clouded his judgment? There was no such thing as being a little bit guilty. She was a party to a crime or she wasn’t. Simple as that. Either way, she was hiding something. He hadn’t looked any deeper, because he hadn’t wanted to know the truth.

  Unbearably weary, he pinched the bridge of his nose. If he ceased pursuing justice, if he let an innocent man hang, he lost everything that made him a man, everything he believed about himself.

  He’d have to pressure her until he learned the truth. No matter what the personal cost, until he knew where the widow placed her loyalties, he had to treat her as a suspect.

  Jack rubbed at his chest. Why did he feel as though someone was tearing out his heart?

  Chapter Nine

  Elizabeth eyed the loaded revolver on the worktable. Short of shooting the Ranger, she didn’t know how else to get rid of the man. Tempted though she was, she’d never resort to violence. Too bad her options were appallingly limited. Involving the sheriff would only cause more problems, and asking Mr. McCoy for help was out of the question. What would she tell them, anyway, “There was a Texas Ranger on my property. He was cutting wood and taking care of chores, so I shot him?”

  Elizabeth snorted.

  Since their argument that morning, he’d holed up in the bunkhouse. Perhaps he’d simply leave on his own. She knew his food supply must be getting low. Better for her if he scampered off to town because he was starving. Better than having to admit that her husband was a card cheat. Better than risking her ownership of the homestead by revealing the truth. Jack was nothing if not a lawman, and he’d have to do the right thing. Even if the right thing left Elizabeth homeless and penniless. She’d expect him to do no less.

  As if conjured from her thoughts, Jack appeared on the horizon, his rifle slung over one shoulder, an enormous turkey dangling behind him from a leather strap. So much for starving him out. He cut through the dry brush edging the creek bed with long strides, his broad shoulders grazing the barren tree limbs. A dark hat shadowed his eyes.

  Her heart did a little flip, but she quickly squashed the emotion. Angry with her weakness, Elizabeth stomped to the barn, setting about her chores with angry vigor. She didn’t even bother to look up from the grain bin when the heavy panel door creaked open. He had to leave, didn’t he? He had a case to solve.

  “Thought you’d like fresh meat for supper,” Jack called.

  She peered at his catch from the corner of her eye. Her mouth watered.

  “I’ll dress this,” he declared, tossing the plump bird onto a worktable beside the sandstone sharpening wheel.

  Ignoring his peace offering, she scooped a dipper of feed and dumped the contents into the burlap sack slung over the milk cow’s stall. Unable to resist, she canted him another sideways glance. Jack flicked the pad of his thumb over a shiny silver knife, testing the edge.

  His hands snagged her attention. They were sturdy and strong with a dusting of dark hair over the knuckles. Those hands could break a man’s neck, yet she’d never seen them raised in anger. He held Rachel with an aching tenderness belying his superior size. She recalled clinging to his hand during Rachel’s birth, the feel of his calloused palms, how his strength had been both alarming and comforting. She marveled at the combination of size
and grace.

  The milk cow bumped against the stall, startling Elizabeth from her reverie.

  He was up to something. She’d starve before she accepted Jack’s offering of dinner. “There you go, Betsy.”

  The cow snuffled in response.

  Elizabeth noted the empty pan of milk she’d set out for the feral cat that had taken up residence in the barn. She splashed a few drops from the pail into the dish. The cat had proved useful in keeping rodents out of the grain bin. While the mangy thing was mean, ornery and ugly, the cat served a useful purpose and Elizabeth was content to keep her homely little mouser happy.

  Setting down the pail, she wrinkled her nose against the pungent scent of manure. Time to clean out Betsy’s stall. That chore meant climbing into the hayloft for bedding. While Elizabeth wasn’t exactly afraid of heights, climbing the rickety ladder was not her favorite activity. Instead, she puttered around the barn, putting off the task as long as she could.

  A half hour passed while she stalled, avoiding Jack as he efficiently divested the turkey of feathers. At last, chiding herself for being a frightened ninny, she grasped the rails and carefully set her booted foot on the first rung. The ladder creaked and groaned with her careful ascent. Hoisting herself over the ledge, she stood, then brushed her hands together with a relieved sigh. She’d survived the climb one more time.

  Dust motes floated in the beams of light shafting through the loft door. The faulty latch never stayed shut. One strong wind was enough to blow the door open a crack. Elizabeth glanced over the ledge, catching sight of the top of Jack’s head. She had a fair idea how he’d escaped the barn that first night. No wonder he’d been so grumpy. Even if he’d dangled his whole body out the loft door, he still had a good five foot plunge onto the snow below. The fall must have bruised his dignity and his hide.

  Served him right for kicking down my door.

  She crept forward, only to be yanked to a halt. She glanced down. Her hem had caught on a splinter. Tugging her skirts free, she continued on her way, her arms outstretched for balance as she tiptoed to the open door. Maintaining a safe distance from the ledge, she stretched one hand and heaved the door shut.

  Blood pumping, she scurried away from the edge, then faced the dwindling stacks of hay bales. How different the space appeared from last spring when Will had hoisted the bales from Mr. McCoy’s sturdy wagon and stacked them to the ceiling. Winter was only half finished, and she’d used her stores more rapidly than she had anticipated.

  Another problem she’d have to deal with soon.

  Discouraged by the thought, she yanked a heavy rectangle off the stack, then kicked the tightly bound straw bale over the side to the barn floor. Betsy snuffled at the disturbance.

  “Oh, be quiet, you grumpy old thing,” Elizabeth called.

  Turning, she grasped the ladder rails and stretched her left foot to the first rung. Adjusting her hold, she reached for the second rung and pressed the ball of her right foot onto the slat. A crack sounded. Her boot broke through the splintered wood. She lost her balance, flailing her leg to find a solid purchase. The jerky movement sent her left foot skidding off its rung. Clutching the rails, she arched backward, her feet dangling.

  “Help!”

  “Don’t let go!” A deep voice called from behind her.

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” she bit out through gritted teeth.

  Boots scuffled, indicating Jack’s hasty dash to assist her. Arms burning, she strained to hold herself aloft. A bead of sweat trickled down her cheek.

  She felt the ladder strain, a telling creak sounded near her ear. She gasped in horror as one of the nails separated from its anchor. A hand snaked around her calf. The nail slid out another half inch.

  “Don’t come up!” she shouted. “The ladder won’t hold us both.”

  She glanced down, quickly squeezing her eyes shut. Ten feet remained between her and the hard-packed dirt below. She’d surely break her leg if she let go now. “Pull that bail beneath me. I’ll jump down.”

  “It’s too far. You’ll break your leg.”

  “Maybe I’ll break my left leg,” she gasped. “Together Jo and I will be one whole person.”

  Scrambling, she hoisted her leg to reach the first rung, but her booted heel caught in her petticoats. Jack clambered up behind her. The ladder sagged. Desperate to counter his weight, she tore through the cotton fabric to release her heel and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the dry wood. “Get down.”

  A hand snaked around her waist. “I’ve got you.”

  “But who’s got you?”

  He chuckled, the vibration sending the nail sliding further from its mooring. “You can let go.”

  She gently shook her head so as not to agitate the overburdened ladder. Her fingers strained. “I don’t know how much longer I can hang on.”

  “Let go.”

  She hadn’t heard him use his brisk tone of voice since that first night so many weeks ago.

  Fear surged through her veins, giving her strength.

  Even if she had wanted to release her grip, he was still too far below her. When she dropped down, the loss of balance would send them both plunging to the ground. “I can’t let go.”

  The arm around her waist tightened. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

  “No!”

  He heaved back, yanking her with him. Her fingers wrenched from their hold. Her mittens snagged on the rough wood and slipped from her stiff hands. With a shriek she fell, pitching backward to the packed dirt below. Jack’s feet hit the ground first. The force of their fall sent him stumbling backward.

  Together they tumbled to the floor. Jack cushioned her landing, holding her tight against his chest. A cloud of dust billowed around them.

  Too stunned to move, she stared at the timbered ceiling. His solid body protected her from the chill ground, warming her back. Adrenaline still rushing through her veins, she flipped over. A chicken flapped in the dust just behind Jack’s head.

  Realizing they were still intimately entangled on the floor, Elizabeth scrambled to one side. She ignored Jack’s muffled grunt of pain when her knee dug into his thigh.

  “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “We could have both been killed.”

  With a casual grin, he pillowed his hands beneath his head. “Mighty sore maybe, but not killed.”

  “Oooh, you daft man.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Daft?”

  “Yes, daft,” she replied, the indignation leaching from her voice.

  She cut a glance at the broken ladder. The daft man was correct. The distance had seemed much more dramatic when she was dangling from the ledge. She hung her head in her hands, willing her hammering heart to slow. The tension gradually drained from her body, replaced by a curious lethargy. When her breath ceased coming in sharp gasped, she chanced a peek at Jack. His gaze rested on her face, somber and concerned. She knew she should be angry, but his eyes captivated her. The way the color grew darker nearer the rims.

  She pressed her palms against his chest to leverage herself upright, then paused. His heartbeat thumped solid and sure, but rapid all the same, against her outstretched fingers. He wasn’t nearly as unaffected by their contact as he feigned.

  He kept the half grin on his face, his hands firmly locked behind his head, but she sensed his coiled tension, a subtle shift in his attitude. Tilting her head, she considered his casual pose.

  She sensed if she pulled away, he wouldn’t stop her, but she had no desire to test her theory. There was something alluring about the way he never rushed a moment. Surrendering to the urge, she ran her thumb over the rough surface of his stubble-covered cheeks, letting her finger linger on the thin white scar barely visible along the length of his jaw. The slight disfigurement gave h
er a glimpse into his checkered past.

  She savored the rare quiet moment. Even though he threatened to stay, eventually his case would force him to leave. She couldn’t forget he’d rescued her. Three times. His hazel eyes evoked a warm longing. As if her soul had been searching for refuge, and Jack held the map. A rare impulse took hold of her. She wanted to know everything about him. His home, his past, his future.

  Had he ever been in love before? Had he ever wanted to give up his job and settle down?

  She grazed the scar with her finger. “How did this happen?”

  He turned his face into her hand. “Mule kick.”

  His lips tickled her palm, sending shivers down her spine. She felt buoyant, brave and invincible. The stubborn tilt in his chin gave her the courage to tease him. “Was this mule an animal, or one of your brothers?”

  He grinned, and she felt the movement all the way to her toes.

  “You’re a very perceptive woman. I come from a long line of stubborn men.”

  At the husky sound of his voice, her heart quivered.

  Her feelings for Will had been bright and intense, like lightning bursting in the sky. But they’d faded just as quickly. She’d never been in love with Will, but at least she finally understood his draw. She’d been in love with the way he made her feel. For someone who had been alone most of her life, his attention had been intoxicating, and brief. If their courtship had been even a week longer, she’d have seen the chinks in his respectability.

  By the time she’d noticed the signs of his cruelty, they’d boarded a train bound for Kansas. There was nothing for her to do but stay, and face the consequences of her rash behavior.

  With Jack the sensations felt like a summer shower—unhurried, light and enduring. The juxtaposition of the two men was startling. Spring rain brought daffodils and crocus, while thunderstorms flattened the prairie grasses and uprooted trees.

  Fighting his attraction taxed her resolve. Especially when he made her insides melt like warm butter. Why did Jack have to threaten everything she held dear? She didn’t want her well-ordered existence to change any more than it already had. Whatever Will had done was in the past, but she didn’t know if Jack would see it that way.