скачать книгу бесплатно
She cradled her daughter in her palms. Rachel cooed, the sound no louder than the purr of a kitten. Tiny fingers worked in the air. Elizabeth kissed all ten tips, captivated by the miniature oval nails. She’d never seen anything so small, so absolutely flawless.
She inhaled Rachel’s sweet essence, her heart swelling until she was sure it would burst right out of her chest. She’d been adrift for months, unsure of the future, and afraid to face the past. With Rachel, everything felt right. The way God had intended.
Mr. Elder returned a moment later with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a platter overflowing with food in the other.
“I can’t eat all that!” Elizabeth laughed.
“You might be surprised.”
Despite her protest, her gaze searched the plate, her mouth watering. He’d heaped a great mound of eggs next to a hearty slab of bacon. An enormous hunk of generously buttered bread balanced on the edge.
Worry dampened her enthusiasm. If this was what he had prepared for Elizabeth, how much had he eaten already? “Have you and Jo had supper?”
Purchasing more supplies didn’t worry her. She had plenty of cash. Following Will’s death, the somber undertaker had marched up to the house in his navy blue suit, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawn into a fierce scowl. He’d slapped a fat wad of bills he’d discovered in Will’s saddle bags into her limp hands. As if begrudging her the virtue of his honorable gesture, the disagreeable man had whirled and stomped away.
Money definitely wasn’t the problem. It was the trip to town that had her stomach in knots. Traveling to Cimarron Springs meant facing the people who resented Will, even after his death. The people whose money and property he’d won in card games. The people who thought Will was a cheat. She’d felt the hot sting of their accusations as she’d run her errands on previous visits. The way the ladies had sniffed and swept their skirts aside when she passed, as if afraid of being tainted by association, was painfully burned into her memory.
Even the sheriff, a man who’d shared more than one raucous evening with Will, had accused her husband of being a cheat. He’d even threatened to seize her homestead if he discovered proof.
“I had a tin of beans earlier,” Mr. Elder said, startling her from her gloomy thoughts.
Elizabeth blinked. “Wherever did you find those?”
“I packed them from town. I didn’t want to deplete your food supply,” he spoke matter-of-factly. “The weather has let up, but you never can tell in this part of the country. You’ve got enough to worry about without a full-grown man eating your winter supply. Might be a long season.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t think… .”
Confounded by Mr. Elder’s kindness, Elizabeth placed Rachel in the makeshift crib while he patiently held her supper. She accepted the plate from his outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed together. The dark hairs on the backs of his knuckles felt rough and foreign against her calloused fingers.
He set the mug on the nightstand. “Anything else you need?”
Surprised to note her quickened pulse, Elizabeth shook her head.
He gestured in Rachel’s direction. “She appears to be healthy and all. No worse for wear.”
“She’s perfect.” That same warm light shimmered around Elizabeth’s heart. “Would you like to hold her?”
He shook his head, backing up so quickly his hip slammed against the dresser. “I’ll pass.”
With a curt nod at Rachel, he strode out of the room.
Elizabeth glanced around the room. Was something burning? Certainly a big, strong man like Mr. Elder wasn’t frightened of a baby. Something else must have spooked him.
She shrugged off the Ranger’s odd behavior and returned her attention to supper. The nutty aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from the night table, mingling perfectly with the scent of freshly toasted bread. She speared a hearty chunk of bacon, her taste buds dancing in anticipation. Chewing slowly, she savored the spicy, salt-cured meat.
An unexpected stab of guilt dampened her enthusiasm. She felt as if she should apologize to Mr. Elder. But for what? For assuming he’d eat her food? It wasn’t as if she’d actually accused him of anything. Still, no matter the circumstances, her lack of tolerance was unacceptable. So far, he’d been nothing but kind.
Her thoughts drifted back to the only other man who’d ever showed her the least hint of kindness. Hadn’t Will started out in a similar fashion? She’d been sweeping snow from the walk outside the bakery where she worked in New York when he’d tipped his hat at her while strolling by. The gesture had stunned her. She couldn’t recall a time when anyone had actually noticed her, much less acknowledged her with a greeting.
When he came back the following day, he’d called her “ma’am” and smiled so wide she’d blushed. By day three, she found herself jumping each time the bell chimed over the door, hoping he’d return. All day she waited, only to be disappointed. When she’d turned the closed sign for the evening, she found him lounging against the lamppost, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. Three weeks later they were married and on a train bound for Kansas.
He’d cared for her in the beginning, showering her with gifts and attention as if she were a shiny new toy. But after the novelty had worn off, he’d changed. Elizabeth was certain that the Ranger was no different. He’d reveal his true colors soon enough, and this time she wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
Elizabeth attacked her food with a new vigor. Considering her appalling display of blubbering this afternoon, she must work harder than ever to prove her independence. In order to survive, she had to be strong. More than just blizzards and Indians threatened her home, and she had to be prepared.
* * *
Jack sucked in a lungful of frosty air, then kicked another enormous stump into place. Two days had passed during his self-imposed exile on the widow’s homestead. Two days of letting the outlaw’s trail grow colder. He stepped back, swinging the ancient ax he’d found rusting near the wood pile high over his head.
Exhaling a vaporous breath, he swung the tool in a neat arc, burying the blade three-inches deep into the dry wood. Repeating the motion, he circled the stump, kicking fallen pieces back into place until he had a satisfying jumble of split wood. His shoulder aching, he rolled another stump into position.
The physical labor, the satisfying crack of the blade, cleared his thoughts. The pile grew taller, but he didn’t slow his pace. Driven by a need to accomplish a useful task, he forged ahead. Someone had already cut the smaller branches. The pie-shaped pieces were neatly stacked in a long, sturdy wall covered in oilcloth and mounded over with snow. But the unwieldy stumps had been heaped together to rot, wasted.
Jack didn’t like waste.
The work put him in control, gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment. He swung the ax until his biceps burned and sweat trickled down his collar, until Elizabeth’s screams of pain during childbirth stopped ringing in his ears.
He knew she was fine, but he couldn’t shake his impotent rage at his own helplessness. He’d borne that same weight on his shoulders staring down at his sister-in-law’s prone body. Doreen had done nothing wrong. She’d been running her errands when she’d arrived at the bank on the wrong day, at the wrong time. She’d walked right into an armed robbery, and the outlaws had shot her. The senselessness of the act had shaken Jack’s faith, making him question God’s plan. Why Doreen?
The dark-haired beauty had married his older brother when Jack was barely sixteen. When he’d decided to join the Texas Rangers instead of working the ranch like his older brothers, she’d been the only member of the family to support his decision.
After the shooting, he’d let his emotions overtake his good sense. When an enraged posse had tracked down a man named Bud Shaw and declared him guilty, Jack had gone along for the ride. Even when every instinct in his body told him the man was innocent. During the following weeks, he’d split his time between the family ranch and a Paris, Texas, jail. Questioning the imprisoned man at length had only cemented his doubts. There were two Bud Shaws roaming the central plains, and the man rotting in jail, waiting for his own hanging, was innocent.
Jack had pulled every favor owed to him by the local judge to buy the wrongly convicted man half a year’s clemency. Three long months had passed since then. Every day without locating the real outlaw weighed heavy on his conscience.
His nieces and nephews deserved justice—but so did the innocent man sitting in jail. The one decent lead Jack had followed had led him to this isolated homestead in the middle of nowhere. Dawdling here wasn’t going to bring justice for anyone. Jack had lingered over the widow and her newborn long enough. He was party to a grave injustice, and he couldn’t rest until he set it straight.
He slid the last stump into place. Squinting at the horizon, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his leather-clad hand. The day looked to be overcast, but clear and calm all the same. If he left in the next hour, he’d be back in Cimarron Springs by lunch. His hands tingled with expectation. The familiar anticipation of embarking on another journey focused him, chasing away his lingering unrest. He had a goal, a purpose.
The widow and her child were none of his concern. Jo’s family, the McCoys, would see to her well-being. Besides, a pretty woman was never alone for long in this part of the country.
The ax missed its target.
Jack windmilled his free hand, managing to right himself just before he tumbled into the woodpile. Straightening, he darted his gaze to the house. No mocking faces appeared in the square windowpanes. Satisfied his gaff had gone unnoticed, he slung the blade over his shoulder.
“Guess that about does it,” he muttered to himself.
With his thoughts focused on the multitude of tasks to accomplish before his journey, he barely noticed the frigid, knee-deep snow on his trek to the barn. He’d saddle up Midnight, say his goodbyes and be gone. Simple as that.
A rare thread of regret tugged at his heart. He forcibly pushed aside the nagging concern. Mrs. Cole had survived this long on her own, there was no need to think she needed his assistance. He was a lawman, not a nursemaid. He had a job to do.
Jack slid open the barn door, relieved to find the cavernous space empty. He inhaled the pungent aroma of hay and feed. The scent reminded him of home, of his youth. He’d grown up mucking out barns, working from dawn till dusk on his family’s cattle ranch. The familiar sights and sounds released an unwelcome longing to work with hands, to build something lasting, to recapture the camaraderie he’d once shared with his brothers.
Chickens clucked and a cow lowed. Midnight, one of two horses in the four stalls, whinnied.
A sound outside the usual barnyard racket caught his attention. Jack paused, tilting his head to one side as he heard it again. He recognized that sound all right.
His jubilant mood fled. Someone was crying. Not the pained howling of a body in agony, but a quiet whimper of despair.
Jack groaned. There was only one person on the homestead who’d hide in a stall rather than cry out in the open. Determined to slink away before he got sucked into another emotional conversation, he backed to the door. He’d already dealt with one weeping female this week. His problem-solving skills were limited to things he could shoot or arrest.
He had one hand on the door when another faint sniffle doused his annoyance. Compassion for Jo dragged his feet to a halt. The code of honor ingrained in him as a child reared its ugly head. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He’d tackle this one last obstacle, and then he’d leave. After all, he’d comforted Elizabeth.
He was practically an expert on women now.
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?”
