by Hebby Roman
But he held up one hand as if to stop her from arguing.
“I understand that's not enough for you, Abby. But Mr. Samuels can put your case before the circuit judge when he comes to Del Rio, and you'll be divorced.” He snapped his fingers. “Free to marry me.”
Divorced…a grass widow. What would her father have thought? He would have condemned her. In his eyes she'd be an adulterous, fallen woman.
Her father's opinion didn't matter anymore. What mattered was how she felt, and how she was feeling would be difficult to explain to Clint. No matter how much she wanted him. And wanted to believe he'd be good to her and Kevin after the honeymoon was over.
But she'd been down that road before. Could she trust Clint? Could she trust herself? Her judgment? She'd been so wrong before and now it wasn't just about her. She had Kevin to think of. What if she made another mistake?
She turned her head and gazed at Clint's bed.
“I can't, Clint. I'm not a normal woman. I don't know how to explain, but you will tire of me soon. I won't…I'm incapable of making you happy in the…the bedroom.” She hung her head. “I'm sorry, but it's for the best.”
He scrambled to his feet and took her into his arms. “What are you saying? You're more than…more than anything I might expect. You're responsive and willing and so sweet.” He leaned in and whispered into her hair. “And I love you, Abby.” He moved back and held her at arm's length. “Don't you care for me?”
Lucas had said he'd loved her. She remembered their sweet spooning on her father's porch. He'd been so good and tender…until they'd married.
“Oh, Clint, don't you understand? My husband told me the same sweet lies—that he loved me. That he would always love me. But all he wanted was my father's money. And when Father made him work hard for every penny; he grew to hate me.”
“But I'm not like your husband. I don't need or want your father's money. I have my own ranch and a good job.”
She turned away from him. “I know, I know, everything is different. I'm older and I have Kevin now, but that's even more reason for me not to tie myself to another man.”
“Tie yourself to another man—is that how you see it? I've told you I love you and want to marry you. But you don't want me; that's easy to see.”
“I can't, Clint. I can't make the same mistake twice.” She shook her head again and crossed her arms over her waist. “I won't be able to share the marriage bed with you.”
“What…what are you saying?”
Could she tell him? Could she bare her soul to this man? Did she have a choice? He wasn't taking “no” for an answer.
“All right. I can see you won't believe me unless I tell you the ugly truth.” She tugged at her cameo, knotting and kinking the ribbon around her index finger. “After the first few times, my husband said I didn't…I didn't please him in the bedroom.” She let go of the cameo and covered her face with her hands. “I had to do things with my mouth and hands to make him…to make him…ready.”
Chapter Nine
Clint gently removed her hands from her face. “There's nothing wrong with you. You felt how aroused I was. How you always arouse me.” He fisted his hands at his sides. “The problem isn't yours. It was your husband's. Something was wrong with him. Believe me, I know about—”
“About how women and men act because you grew up in a whorehouse?”
His face flushed, and he exhaled, his breath hissing. “That's a low blow. And not what I expected from you.” He shook his head. “It wasn't what I was going to say either.”
She'd made him angry. Maybe that was good. Lucas had never been angry before they'd married. But after…when her father made him work like a slave, he'd been plenty angry. And he'd taken his anger out on her. Maybe, if she made Clint angry enough, he would show her his other side…his animal side, as Lucas had.
“What were you going to say?” she asked.
He brought one fisted hand down and slapped his other hand with it. “Forget it, Abby. I don't know how to reach you. To make you understand not all men are like your husband.”
“Or mean and miserly like my father?” Her voice was a sob now, and her eyelids stung. But she wouldn't cry. She'd shed so many tears when her father had died. And for what? Because he'd left her a boardinghouse to take care of her son?
Crying had never helped. Lucas had gloried in her crying, taunting her and making her do horrible things to make him hard enough to have married relations. After what Lucas and her father had done, how could she trust any man?
He reached out to her again, and she could see he'd gotten control of himself. His voice was low and gentle, “How can I make you realize not all men are like your husband and father?”
She pushed past him, grabbing the doorknob. “You can't change what has happened to me.” She shook her head and lowered her eyes. “How I wish I was seventeen again and starting my life. But I'm not. I'm twenty-seven and I have a child to worry about. I can't make silly mistakes.”
“Abby—”
“Don't call me that! Only my mother called me Abby,” she said. “And all Lucas wanted was my father's money, not me. He couldn't stand the sight of me, once we'd married, unless I was naked and groveling on my hands and knees and…and…”
She drew herself up. “When he got tired of that and Kevin kept him awake, crying at night, like babies do, he took the safe's key from my father's desk and stole thousands of dollars. I caught him at it and would have told my father, but he beat me senseless to stop me. It was the first and only time he beat me, but once was enough. Then he ran off with the money, leaving me and his son.”
He gasped and lowered his head, shaking it back and forth. “Any man who touches a woman is a coward and a bully and should be horse whipped. I was glad when I got big enough to protect my mother from that kind of treatment. There are men who enjoy, who enjoy…” He lifted his head. “I shouldn't be telling you these things. I'm sorry.”
“No, you shouldn't. It frightens me. And makes me realize how vulnerable and weak I am.” She titled her chin up. “I never want to feel that way again. Never want to be dependent on a man.”
“And the humiliation and degradation didn't stop there.” She shook her head. “That was just the beginning,” she said, grasping the doorknob until her knuckles turned white. “When he left me behind to face my father, I had to make reparations. I had to pay back my father for the theft. After all, Lucas had been my husband.”
She choked on a sob, and tears streamed down her face. And she hated her weakness. Hated the tears that wouldn't stop.
“I paid with six long years of servitude and groveling with no hope in sight. I can't marry you, Clint.” She raised her hot and flushed face to him. “Don't you see, I can't marry any man.”
He reached out his hand to her and his eyes were watery.
She ignored his outstretched hand and opened the door, fleeing to the sanctuary of her room.
***
Leticia woke her and Kevin at sunrise. It was a day-long trip back to Del Rio, and they'd be lucky to get to town before sunset, as this was the time of the year when the days were shortest.
Kevin rode Esther alongside the wagon piled high with bales of wool from the autumn shearing, and Clint rode Jezebel. Abigail directed the mules for Clint, as they'd agreed to earlier. Carlos had gone ahead with the other wagon filled with wool and another vaquero a day or two before. The two vaqueros would wait in town and then drive the empty wagons back to the ranch.
At midday, Clint called a halt beside a small stream that fed into the Rio Grande, and they ate the leftovers from yesterday's picnic. This time, though, there was precious little conversation and her son didn't bolt down his food.
She glanced at Kevin and realized he looked tired. More than tired. His eyes were bloodshot with purple smudges under them. She hoped he wasn't coming down with something.
Clint cleared his throat. “Kevin, let's give Esther a rest, okay? I
think you should ride in the wagon with your mother and tie Esther behind.”
Her son looked up and nodded.
She was surprised he'd agreed. She knew how proud he was to have his own horse, and she'd expected him to argue, wanting to ride Esther into town to show her off. Either he was very tired or ill.
“Kevin, come over here.” She lifted her hand and motioned to her son.
“Aw, Ma, what now?”
“Kevin, do as your mother asks,” Clint said.
Kevin huffed but scooted over. She reached up, feeling his forehead. He felt a little warm to her touch but not hot. If he was taking ill, he didn't have a fever…yet.
“Okay, young man, tie Esther up and get in the wagon beside me,” she said.
He nodded and unsaddled his mare, wedging the saddle in between the bales of hay. Then he tied Esther to the back of the wagon and climbed in beside her.
She patted her son's arm and flapped the reins. “Get up, mules.”
Glancing over her shoulder at the saddle, she realized not only did her son owe Clint for the horse, but he'd provided a serviceable saddle as well. She sighed. She should at least pay Clint for the saddle. It was enough he'd gifted her son with a horse.
Thinking about how kind Clint had been, she felt a twinge of conscience for the way she'd treated him last night.
What if he wasn't like other men? What if he was different?
She shook her head. It didn't matter. She couldn't share a bed with him, not with him or any other man. Last night had taught her that. She'd live her life alone, except for her son. And when Kevin was grown, she'd be completely alone.
They bumped along the rutted trail for several more hours, not talking. Kevin sat beside her, but he was strangely listless. He must be getting sick. She prayed it wasn't anything serious, like the typhoid fever that had taken her mother.
When the sun was sinking slowly in the west and the lights of Del Rio hadn't come into view, she broke the tense silence by asking, “How far before we make town?”
Clint raised his head and squinted at the horizon. “Another couple of hours at least.”
“What about that thundercloud?” She pointed to the southeast.
He shrugged. “Looks like it might catch us before we make town. Is Kevin all right?”
She touched her son's forehead, and she thought he felt a little warmer than at midday. “I'm not certain. He might have a fever.”
Clint cursed under his breath; something she'd never heard him do before. He brought Jezebel beside the wagon and leaned down, pulling open a box under her feet. The lid lifted and he said, “Here are some oil slickers. If it starts raining, wrap up Kevin and put the other one on.”
“What about you?”
“I'll be fine. You just wrap yourself and the boy.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed to his back as he spurred Jezebel ahead.
Two miles outside of Del Rio, the downpour started. Abigail pulled the oil slickers out and wrapped one around Kevin. And then she covered herself. By the time she pulled her son close, he was shivering and his teeth chattering.
She touched his forehead and found his skin was hot.
Clint circled back and joined them. She flapped the reins over the mules' backs, urging them to a trot. They lurched forward for a few yards and then settled back into a slow, grudging walk.
“Kevin is burning up with fever,” she yelled over the downpour.
Clint heard her and nodded. He dipped his head and curtains of water fell from the brim of his Stetson. Taking the lead mule by the halter, he urged them forward at a trot.
The muddy outskirts of Del Rio loomed into view. Shanties, outhouses, cabins, and then the substantial homes on Main Street flew by. Clint brought the mules to a halt in front of the boardinghouse.
Abigail slid from the wagon, trying to hold Kevin up. Despite the sheets of rain, he was like a live coal in her arms, burning with fever.
Clint dismounted and gently pushed her to one side. “Let me get him.” He grabbed Kevin by the shoulders and beneath his knees, swinging the boy into his arms.
Elisa opened the door, and they fell inside, muddy and soaking.
“I'll take him upstairs to his room,” Clint said.
“Please. Thank you.” Abigail turned to Elisa. “Kevin has a fever. Get some cool compresses and send for Doc Rodgers.”
***
For Abigail, the next few days passed in a haze of worry and fatigue. Kevin's fever was up and down. Some days he was almost a normal eight-year-old boy, cranky and bored, and wanting to be let out of bed.
Abigail played checkers and cards with him. Clint helped, too, telling the boy stories and teaching him the more complicated game of chess.
Then there were the days when her son's fever raged, and he was miserable and agitated. Doc Rodgers came and examined him the night they got back from the ranch, saying Kevin didn't have typhoid or any other life-threatening ailment. It was his opinion her son had caught a chill in the downpour and was suffering from the flu. Abby knew Kevin had been sick before they were caught in the thunderstorm, but she held her peace and was glad the doctor didn't find evidence of a more serious illness.
After the first night, Doc Rodgers visited every other day and left a noxious-smelling medicine that Abigail suspected contained too much grain alcohol and little in the way of medicinal content.
Instead, she sent to Elisa's curandera across the border for willow bark and hot ginger teas to bring down her son's fever, along with suffusions of elderflower to make Kevin sweat.
She alternated between trying to lower Kevin's fever with the teas and by sending Juan to bring back cool, clear water from San Felipe springs for the compresses. Other times, when the compresses and tea didn't work, she mounded blankets on Kevin, started a roaring fire in the fireplace, and gave him the elderflower suffusion to sweat out the fever.
And when she could get him to eat, she urged beef broth and soft foods on her son.
In between, she grabbed snatches of sleep and a few bites of food for herself.
When his sheriff duties allowed, Clint came and helped. His strong arms were especially useful when she needed to shift Kevin's feverish body and apply the compresses.
At the end of a week, Abigail was cautiously optimistic. For the past forty-eight hours, her son's fever had been low grade. She hoped and prayed the worst was over.
It was late evening, past supper and Kevin was sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning, but his forehead was barely warm to the touch. She'd eaten a few bites of beef steak and mashed potatoes from the dinner tray Elisa had sent up. But mostly, she needed sleep, at least a short nap.
She sat down in the rocker by the hearth and her head sank forward on her chest. A moment later, someone touched her shoulder and she jerked awake. She gazed up at Clint's blue eyes.
“I didn't knock because I didn't want to wake Kevin,” he whispered.
She nodded. Her tongue lay thick and heavy in her mouth, and she was so tired it was an effort to speak.
“How's our patient?” he asked.
She wondered at his use of the pronoun our, but her mind was too fuzzy to latch onto the significance of what he'd said.
“I think he's better. His fever has been low for the past two days. If he can get through tonight without a high fever, maybe he will turn the corner.” She touched her mother's cameo, as if for luck.
Clint nodded and sank to the floor beside her rocker. He took her hand in his. Their fingers tangled together and despite her exhaustion, his mere touch made her feel flushed and set her nerves to jangling.
“Is the cameo your mother's?” he asked.
She opened her eyes and said, “How did you know?”
“A good guess.” He laid his head on her knee. “What was your mother like?”
She gulped, not wanting to cry. Every time she thought of her mother, she cried. “She was good and kind and loved her children
more than anything.” Her free hand stroked his short brown hair. She closed her eyes again, savoring his soft hair, loving that he allowed her to be tender with him, despite her rejection of him at the ranch.
He lifted his head and gazed at her. “Then you're a lot like your mother.”
Her face flushed at the implied compliment. What had she done to deserve him? Or instead, should she ask herself what had she done to deserve Lucas as a husband?
Surely, being young and foolish wasn't a crime. For that was why she'd married Lucas in the first place. But life had taught her there were always second chances. If you were brave enough to embrace them.
That night at Clint's ranch, the ugliness of her past had overwhelmed her. But since then, Clint's unselfish concern for her sick son had broken down her reserve and made her question her fears and doubts. Every night he was here, willing t help with Kevin and ready to comfort her. He was her rock. And his kindness and caring had made her come to terms with her feelings.
She was in love with him. Despite her fears and despite what had happened to her in the past. She couldn't help herself. She loved the man. She should tell him, but something stopped her. When Kevin was well, she'd tell him, but not now.
“Thank you, Clint. That's kind of you to say. My mother was…is…an angel.”
He nodded and laid his head on her knee again, while keeping her hand tangled with his.
“I'm glad Kevin is doing better,” he murmured. “If I fall asleep and you or Kevin needs me, wake me up.”
“I will.” She squeezed his hand.
***
Abigail woke with a start. The last log in the fireplace snapped and fell with a thud. She looked up, blinking and rubbing her tired eyes with her fists. It was dark except for the dying embers in the fireplace and must be the middle of the night. After comforting her, Clint had gone to bed hours before. She glanced at Kevin and saw he was tossing and turning and had kicked off his covers.
He half-raised himself and called, “Mama, Mama.”
She jumped to her feet. Her son hadn't called her “Mama” since he was three years old. She rushed to his side and took him in her arms. And almost screamed when she touched him.
