Winning the Widow's Heart Page 9

  There hadn’t been much time to learn, anyway. The hours at the bakery had been from dawn till dusk. The family who owned the shop had insisted she stay behind on Sundays in order to prepare the kitchen for busy Monday mornings. During her three-week courtship, Will had promised to accompany her to services. He’d broken that promise along with so many others.

  Jack reined his horse to a halt before her, effectively blocking her flight. “If you won’t think of yourself, at least think of Jo. She was sick with worry when I left to find you.”

  “How dare you judge me.” Her voice broke. “I did the best I could while you were gone.”

  Suddenly another man stood before her. Another man who had left her, again and again, until at last he’d been so disappointed, he’d left for good.

  “I’m here now.”

  Jack nudged the horse closer. A cutting wind brought moisture to her eyes. Numbing cold penetrated the tartan blanket around her shoulders. Uncontrollable shivers racked her body.

  If she refused, he’d know she couldn’t ride. Drained of fight, she focused on a glimpse of the scrollwork design stamped into the pommel of his leather saddle.

  Constantly living in fear was exhausting. From the moment her mother had abandoned her at the orphanage, the grueling emotion had ruled her life. Even her marriage had been fraught with fear—fear that Will might never return from one of his many trips—and fear that he would.

  She didn’t want to be afraid anymore. She didn’t want to be a disappointment to anyone, especially herself.

  Elizabeth grasped the Ranger’s hand. The coarse threads of her woolen mittens dug into her fingers as he squeezed. Gathering her courage, she lifted her booted foot. The leather stirrup loomed impossibly high.

  “The other foot,” Jack grumbled.

  Fuming, she shifted her weight. Her skirts stretched over her knee as she drew her leg higher, finally sinking her toe into the narrow loop.

  He effortlessly tugged on her arm. She managed to swing her leg over the back of the animal. Matted snow clumped wetly to her hem as her skirts flapped over her calf. Seated precariously, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Jack’s waist and hung on for dear life. His large body sheltered her from the worst of the buffeting wind.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Jack caught her gaze. “You set?”

  Her heartbeat raced. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His face loomed so close she noted the flecks of gold surrounding his irises. Heat emanated from his body, enveloping her in warmth. Her bone-rattling shudders stilled.

  “We’d best get back home, then,” he muttered brusquely. Despite the urgency in his voice, he gently nudged the horse at a sedate, slow ramble.

  Elizabeth glanced down, quickly pinching her eyes shut again. The hard ground rushed by a great distance away. She fisted her hands in his coat, hugging Jack closer. The rough wool abraded her cheek with the horse’s uneven gate.

  The muscle along his strong jaw clenched and unclenched, as if he was biting back his fury. With every step that brought them closer to home, her initial annoyance at his high-handed behavior blossomed into outright resentment. She didn’t want to be afraid, but she didn’t want to be ordered about or subjected to this seething resentment.

  The horse stumbled, sending her teetering to one side. Shrieking, she fumbled to regain her balance.

  Jack pressed his leather-clad hand over her woolen mittens to hold her steady. “I’ve got you.”

  His protective gesture acted like a bucket of ice water on her smoldering anger. Elizabeth sighed. The lawman was simply a convenient target for her irritation. In truth, she wasn’t angry with Jack. She was disappointed in herself. Once again, an impulsive decision had proven disastrous. Going for help had been the wrong choice. She hadn’t known it was going to snow.

  A sharp wind kicked up, tearing at the tartan blanket. Jack leaned forward, urging the horse to a quicker pace while still keeping a firm hold on her arm.

  The faint outline of her homestead appeared in the distance. Three modest buildings clustered beneath the branches of red oak, sugar maple and linden trees planted by settlers long since gone. The protective copse of trees stood guard against the maddening winds that drove across the plains from season to season.

  The bunkhouse appeared first, with the barn set farther back and to the left. The one-story main house with its covered porch sat closest to the road to town. Those buildings represented everything she owned, every piece of her desolate history. Her only hope for the future.

  Here was the one piece of security she’d managed to cling to despite the relentless forces buffeting her safe, ordered world. Here was the only property she’d ever owned, the only home that had ever truly belonged to her. Her heart had soared the first time she laid eyes on the modest spread. Now she waited for the familiar surge of possessive emotion.

  Nothing.

  Her stomach plummeted. She clawed for purchase on a slope of conflicting emotions, but the drab structures failed to inspire anything but apathy. There was no life in the wood, mortar, brick or glass. The absence of her usual giddy pleasure unsettled her. Instead, she felt trapped. Without those steadying markers, what did she have?

  Rocked by the loss, she clung to Jack, letting his body shield her from the driving snow while she absorbed his comforting warmth. She could pretend, just for a moment, that she wasn’t alone any longer. Rachel’s birth had driven home how desperately she needed someone to confide in, to lean on.

  Her cranky rescuer veered away from the barn, continuing on a path toward the house. He reined the horse to a halt before the front porch. Jack turned his head, bringing his profile into view.

  Without speaking he held out his hand. Elizabeth grasped the offering, swinging to the ground. When her feet hit the solid earth, she feared her legs would buckle. As if sensing her distress, Jack held her mittened fingers until she steadied herself.

  Glancing up, she recalled how he’d looked the night Rachel Rose was born. Her pulse quickened. What a blessing that evening had brought. The memory had her heart opening like the first crocus of spring, new and reborn.

  Finally, here were the feelings she’d been searching for.

  Anxious to ensure Jo and Rachel’s safety, she whirled, racing up the shallow, slippery steps to yank open the door.

  She dashed to the bedroom and discovered them both sleeping peacefully. Jo with the blanket tucked beneath her chin, Rachel in her makeshift crib. Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest. Thank the Lord. No one had suffered for her impetuous dash for help. She took several deep breaths as her thundering heartbeat gradually slowed. Backing out of the room, she crossed to the pantry. Embers sparked in the stove’s grate. The fire’s warmth chased away the last of her frosty chill.

  With her fear for Jo and Rachel eased, the Ranger’s sudden appearance in her life troubled her. What did he want? Why had he returned? If she was truthful with herself, she was just as disturbed by her flustered reaction to him. She’d best guard her heart against softening to him. For all she knew, he’d come to check on her at the sheriff’s bidding.

  Preparing for a long talk, she reached for the tin coffee kettle. She didn’t know why Jack had wandered back into her life, but she was going to find out. One thing she did know for certain.

  His return meant trouble.

  * * *

  “You can’t handle an injured girl and newborn baby all by yourself,” Jack spoke, dizzy from talking in circles with the mule-headed widow for the past twenty minutes.

  Upon his return from the barn, Elizabeth had laid out coffee and pulled peach-filled kolaches sprinkled with crystallized sugar from the oven warmer.

  He surreptitiously reached for another pastry. “There’s too much work to be done.”

  “And what do you suggest I do?” Elizabe
th countered. “Jo can’t be moved.”

  He licked a spot of jam from his thumb. Problem was, he kept getting distracted when he should be trying to outwit her. Not that his distraction was entirely his fault. She was even prettier than the last time he’d seen her. Her lustrous hair was braided into an elaborate knot at the base of her neck, highlighting her slender throat. Her pale blue eyes had grown more vibrant, a charming hue that reminded him of a clear summer’s day. Only the faint circles of exhaustion darkening her eyes like bruises indicated her exhaustion.

  She wore a crisp white shirtwaist tucked into the wide band of her blue gingham skirt. Looking at her, he could hardly believe this was the same round woman he’d burst in on weeks ago.

  A woman that pretty shouldn’t be risking her life. “If you’re in trouble, send for help.”

  She grasped the baking sheet with one hand, slipping her spatula beneath two more kolaches.

  She slid the pastries onto his plate with a scowl belying her thoughtful act. “I believe that’s what I was doing when you referred to me as a lunatic.”

  Abashed, Jack studied his calloused hands. He absently flicked a crumb from his palm. “I apologize for that remark. I was, um, concerned, and might have let some emotion leach into the situation.”

  “Gracious, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you string so many words together into a sentence.” She wiped her hands on the crisp, white apron knotted around her waist. “That was an articulate, almost heartfelt apology.”

  He scowled, not knowing if all those showy words added up to a good thing or a bad thing. To cover his confusion, he bit into another luscious pastry, then groaned in delight as peach filling enveloped his upper lip. Right then he didn’t care if she was praising him or insulting him. As long as he was eating her tasty baking, nothing else mattered.

  “Your apology is accepted,” Elizabeth grudgingly offered. “You may stay for supper.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you.” Where did she think he was going, anyway? “You didn’t happen to look outside recently? It’s a whiteout. You and I are going to be sharing more than supper together.”

  Watching her cheeks flush a becoming shade of pink, he immediately regretted his words. “I meant to say, this snow is forcing me to hole up here for a few days until the weather clears.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “You might as well be truthful. Did Sheriff Stanton send you out here?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You—”

  Rachel let out a shrill wail. Jack started, surprised to hear such a robust noise from such a tiny package. The widow’s face clouded with worry as she lifted the crying baby from her woven laundry basket. To his astonishment, the child appeared to have doubled in size in the weeks he’d been gone.

  “Mrs. Cole,” Jo called from the other room.

  Elizabeth’s attention swung between the red-faced baby and the bedroom, torn between the two demands. “I need to check on Jo.”

  Quickly wiping his sticky hands on his pant legs, Jack rose to his feet. “Let me hold Rachel.”

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  He quirked an eyebrow. He’d been present for the delivery, certainly she trusted him to hold the infant for a few minutes? “She’s already crying. I’m not going to make it any worse.”

  As she cautiously handed over the baby, the widow caught her lower lip between her teeth. The impossibly light bundle fit perfectly into Jack’s outstretched arms. Adjusting the blankets, he tucked Rachel close to his chest. The baby’s distraught howling ceased. Peaceful silence filled the room.

  Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged, secretly pleased with his success. “Check on Jo. This isn’t the first baby I’ve ever held, you know.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I have nieces and nephews, remember?”

  Another crimson flush spread over the apples of her cheeks. “Of course.”

  She spun away from his mocking regard, tugging her apron strings loose on her way to check on Jo.

  Jack blew out a long, relieved breath. “I’m not much good at talking with the ladies.”

  He studied the baby, her perfect Cupid’s bow mouth, her dark, solemn eyes. An unfamiliar contentment seeped through his veins like warm molasses. He’d spent the last decade of his life immersed in the filth and human muck littering every dark corner of the American West. He’d grown so accustomed to dishonesty, he expected most men to tell a lie even when the truth would suit them better. Yet here in his arms rested an innocent human life, completely reliant and trusting.

  His chest tightened. He felt as if he’d betrayed the child by leaving, though his guilt made no sense. This rag-tag group was none of his concern. He’d done far more than most men in his position would have.

  He caressed Rachel’s cheek reverently with his finger. Her mouth worked, rooting toward his touch. A protective instinct banded around his heart. One minuscule hand stirred beneath the blankets, a seeking arm struggled free. Five pudgy fingers wrapped around his knuckle.

  Rachel’s mouth spread into a wide, toothless grin. His heart brimmed with awe. They were connected. He didn’t know how or why, but his fate was irrevocably linked to this child and her impossible, beautiful, infuriating mother.

  And he didn’t like it.

  He didn’t like it one bit. Caring meant risking loss. He’d seen too much in his career as a Ranger to convince himself otherwise. He’d witnessed enough of other people’s suffering to know he never wanted to risk such sorrow in his own life. He never wanted to suffer the way his brother had after Doreen’s death.

  If the Lord had brought him to this place and time for a reason, he had to trust the Lord to guide him still.

  “‘Great is our Lord, and of great power,’” he whispered to the infant cradled in his arms. “‘His understanding is infinite.’”

  Jack prayed he was worthy of that understanding.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack rubbed his eyes, appearing as unbearably weary as Elizabeth felt.

  “Have you ever fired a gun before?” he asked.

  “Once,” she replied.

  If you could call Will grabbing her hand and pulling the trigger actually firing a gun. Then, yes, she had. It wasn’t an event she liked to recall. Will had been unsympathetic to her bruised shoulder, even belly-laughing at her pain.

  “You can’t live on the prairie without knowing how to shoot a gun.”

  Elizabeth scowled.

  Jack paused in his lecture.

  They stood in a clearing several hundred yards from the main house. Jack had scoured the barren landscape before deciding on the safest area to test fire her shotgun. While snow had mounded in six-foot drifts along the gentle dips in the ground, this section had been swept smooth by fierce winds. Tufts of grass spiked through the white frost as if Mother Nature had given the whole prairie a bad haircut.

  Jack had instructed her on how to clean and load the unwieldy firearm earlier. Now the moment she’d been dreading all morning loomed before her.

  She sucked in a fortifying breath. “I’m ready.”

  Gripping the cold metal barrel, she clamped her jaw shut. She loathed guns, the noise and the violence. Despite her fear, she steeled her resolve. Her fledging independence required her to learn, no matter how repugnant the task.

  “You’ve got only one chance with this particular shotgun,” Jack said. “So you have to make your shot count.”

  Elizabeth chanced a sidelong glance at her reluctant instructor. His double-breasted coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders. His dark hat sat low on his head. Her cheeks warmed. He stuck his left foot slightly forward and angled his body.

 
; His woolen overcoat with its wide lapels resembled the pea jackets she’d seen on dock workers near the harbor. She pictured Jack on the bow of a ship, strong and sure, the wind whipping through his hair.

  “Here’s how you stand.” His deep-timbered voice intruded on her musing.

  Shaking away the fanciful thoughts of rolling waves and unfurled masts billowing in the breeze, Elizabeth mirrored his stance, inordinately pleased at his curt nod of approval.

  “Raise the barrel like this.” He lifted both hands as if he held a phantom gun, his left eye squinting into the distance.

  Once again she mimicked him, raising Will’s ancient shotgun to level the sight at a stray line of brush on the horizon.

  “That’s not quite right,” Jack murmured, rubbing his chin in thoughtful consideration as his gaze swept over her stiff form.

  He circled to stand behind her. Elizabeth tensed. He wrapped his arms around her upper body, not quite touching the nap of her coat. He leaned forward. His breath fluttered against her cheek. His right hand covered hers, their skin separated by layers of leather and the thin cotton gloves she’d donned this morning in anticipation of the firing lesson. Gently nudging, he adjusted the barrel to rest more firmly in the crook of her shoulder.

  “Like this,” he said.

  Her stomach performed an unexpected flip. Elizabeth jerked her head in a nod.

  His left arm came around her body, guiding her with surprising gentleness to rest her stiff fingers on the smooth, mahogany forestock. “That’s better,” he said. The vibration from his baritone voice tickled her ear. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

  “A bit,” Elizabeth gasped, hoping her quivering voice hadn’t betrayed her.

  This uncontrollable trembling had everything to do with the large, warm male cradling her in his arms, and nothing to do with the weather. To her shame, she ached to close her eyes and rest her head in the hollow of his shoulder. To feel safe—just for a moment. To forget that he might very well be here at the sheriff’s bidding, ready to snatch the rug from beneath her fragile security. After all, why else would he have returned?