by Karen Kirst
Jane rushed over and took his hand, dark hair swinging as she tilted her head way back. “Will you tell us a bedtime story?”
Grace waited for his refusal, bemused by Jane’s actions. Neither of her daughters had felt the freedom to approach Ambrose. Her husband had maintained a neat, polished appearance even at home, dressing in well-cut suits, his black hair cut short, and his mustache and goatee meticulously trimmed. A handsome man with cold eyes, he hadn’t been nearly as intimidating as the Viking sheriff.
“I don’t know any,” he finally said.
“You could tell us how you acquired Wolf,” Grace said, not looking at him.
“Yes,” Jane exclaimed. “Please, Mr. Noah?”
“All right.” He waved toward the bed. “Have a seat.” Retrieving a chair from the other room, he spun it and straddled the seat. “I didn’t always live in this spot.”
“You didn’t?” Abigail said, her brow creasing.
“Nope. When I came to this area, I chose land close to where the railroad station is now. When the railroad company chose Cowboy Creek as a terminus, they needed my land to lay tracks on.”
“Didn’t you want to stay?” Jane said.
“I put a lot of labor, sweat and tears into that homestead, so yeah, I was reluctant to leave. But they offered me a good sum. And anyway, I hadn’t ever aimed to live in the middle of the hustle and bustle of town. I craved peace and quiet.” He appeared lost in thought for a minute. “About a week after I finished the cabin, I was out by the stream and heard a pathetic little howl. There in the weeds, I found Wolf wet and shivering and hungry. He was small enough to fit in the palms of my hands.” He cupped his hands together to show them.
“Where were his parents?” Grace said, trying to picture the great, lumbering beast as a pup.
“I found his mother the next day...a large dog. Black like Wolf, but her eyes were dark brown. She didn’t make it.”
“How sad.” Jane hugged her bent knees to her chest.
“I never saw the wolf who sired him. Probably passed through this area and kept on moving.”
Abigail yawned and Noah pointed to the door. “Get in your pallet, ladies. I’ll be there in a minute to turn down the lamps.”
Both girls obeyed without question, kissing Grace on the cheek before scampering out.
Exhaustion weighed her down, but she wasn’t ready to see him go.
“I feel horrible for taking your bedroom. Are you getting any sleep in the hayloft? It must be smelly and loud with the animals.”
He rested one hand on the footboard. Without his gun belt and badge, he looked like a regular rancher. A handsome, well-built man of the land.
“The barn’s not bad. The animals bed down for the night, so they don’t bother me. At least there are walls and a roof to shelter me from the weather. I wasn’t so fortunate during the war.”
“Why did you join the Union?”
His eyes darkened. “You should get some rest.”
“I slept this afternoon.” Using the pillows as a support, she clasped her hands on her middle. “I’m tired but not sleepy.”
And I long to know more about you, as forbidden as that is.
Noah paced to the window and stared at the night-cloaked prairie for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. It was a personal question, after all, and those were off-limits.
“My family built their wealth on the backs of slaves. While my father and his overseer treated them well, I couldn’t justify owning another human being. We went to church every Sunday in our shiny conveyances, dressed in our expensive clothes and acting as if we were model Christians. The older I got, the harder it was for me to swallow the hypocrisy.”
“So you left?”
“Not before challenging my father. I told him I would help him make our business work without the slaves.” Kneading the ridge of his shoulder, he shook his head. “He was livid.”
“When you couldn’t change his way of thinking, you decided to fight for your beliefs.”
He grimaced. “I wasn’t welcomed with open arms.”
Grace wasn’t surprised. Living in Chicago, she’d heard her fellow citizens espousing hatred of the South as a whole entity. “You had to prove yourself worthy.”
He turned to look at her. “I don’t regret any of it. If I hadn’t gone to Pennsylvania, I never would’ve met Will and Daniel.”
A man of principle, Noah had been willing to sacrifice his relationship with his family in the pursuit of justice and equality. He’d been willing to sacrifice his very life. Just like thousands of others.
“Is the rift with your father the reason you aren’t in regular contact with your family?”
“Regular contact?” He snorted. “I haven’t spoken to them since the day I walked out.”
Shock rippled through her. “You didn’t write to inform them of your injury? You left them to worry and wonder whether or not you made it through the war alive?” She hadn’t suspected him capable of such coldness. His poor mother...
The vein in his neck throbbed. “You have no right to question me. You don’t know me or my circumstances.” He stalked toward the open door.
“You claim you’re not stone-hearted,” she blurted, crumpling the quilt in her fists, “but your refusal to provide your parents with answers says otherwise.”
“You’ve overstepped the line, Constance,” he growled.
Grace. My name is Grace, she longed to shout. She wished to hear him call her by her true name. Just once.
“If you had children of your own, you’d understand my dismay.”
“I don’t. And I never will.” He loomed like an immovable mountain. “I hope and pray you don’t think that by hanging around you’ll somehow change my mind. I didn’t send for you, remember? I didn’t ask for this.”
Grace fought the sickness rising up, desperate not to be ill in front of him. Sweat beaded on her forehead. “You insisted we stay here, remember? You.”
He faltered, forehead bunching as he examined her more closely. “You need a wet washrag? Some tea?”
“No,” she whispered, seeking out the pail. “Please go.”
Spinning on his heel, he left the room. Grace scrambled out of the bed to kneel on the unforgiving wood planks, reaching the pail without a moment to spare. She jerked when she felt masculine fingers skimming her shoulder and gingerly easing her unbound hair out of the way.
“Go away.”
“Not going to happen.” Gone was the accusation, in its place tenderness she’d never received from her husband. She felt like crying.
Her stomach heaved again. Oh, the misery. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” she gasped.
“Shh,” he soothed, handing her a damp cloth.
Burying her face in it, she relished the cool sensation. He waited without speaking, his hand warm on her upper back where he held her hair in place, until she was ready to return to the bed. Righting the covers about her, he folded the cloth and placed it on her forehead.
“I apologize for upsetting you.”
Grace squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of him. Part of her reveled in his presence. The other rational part knew this scene would bring her fresh humiliation in the morning.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“If you need me during the night—”
“I won’t. Good night, Sheriff.”
Not Noah. The less he was Noah to her and the more he was simply the town sheriff, the safer her heart.
“Good night.”
He left her then, stopping in the main room to dampen the lamps and say a word to the girls before exiting the cabin. Only when she was certain he was gone did she let the tears fall.
Chapter Ten
He was an insensitive boor. Th
e fact hadn’t bothered him until two nights ago when he’d pushed Constance to her limit, angry more with himself than her because she’d spoken the truth. His fury over his father’s refusal to even consider a different way of doing things, the hurt his spiteful accusations had inflicted, had festered throughout his absence. That last altercation had become fixed in Noah’s mind. Not once had he considered his father’s attitude might have changed. Nor had he given thought to his mother’s anguish, his sisters’ concern.
It had only been about his convictions, his drive to prove he was worthy of the blue uniform, and later, his injury, recovery and the ramifications of his disfigurement.
Until two nights ago, he hadn’t allowed himself to think what his loved ones might’ve endured during the war. Those Southern homes that hadn’t been used to house soldiers had been torched. If their owners were found in residence, sometimes they were granted mercy. Other times they were shot on sight. The women on the other hand... Noah’s gut clenched at the gruesome images.
Dear God, I should’ve been praying for their protection instead of nursing my wounded pride. I’m sorry. I’ve been so selfish.
His horse crested a small ridge and sped up when the barn came into view. Nearing the cabin, Noah saw Constance and the girls out by the trees. Pulling up on the reins, he dismounted and strode to join them, not happy that the anxiety that had dogged him the entire day vanished now that he had them in his sights.
Constance had made herself comfortable on the carved bench, fabric piled in her lap and needle poised midair. She wore a plain dove-gray skirt—no sign of the hoopskirt she’d arrived in—and a powder blue blouse that mirrored the sky above. Her hair streamed to the middle of her back, pearl pins securing the locks at either temple, streaks of caramel visible in the light of day.
Sure would help matters if she wasn’t so pretty, he thought ruefully.
Coming around the bench, he noticed her lingering pallor and worried she wasn’t getting enough rest after her ordeal. She’d remained in bed only until lunch yesterday, when she’d joined him in the kitchen and insisted on helping clean up the dishes.
“Hey.”
She looked up, her delicate features reflecting surprise. “Sheriff. I wasn’t expecting you until supper. Are you hungry?”
She’d stopped using his given name. The distance it put between them was for the best, but he missed hearing her say it. Besides her, only Will, Daniel and their wives called him Noah. To everyone else in Cowboy Creek, he was Sheriff Burgess.
“No. I had a late lunch at the café.” What was supposed to have been a simple meal had turned into an ordeal. Word had spread about Constance seeking a husband, and every few bites a lonely cowboy would stop by his table and ask after her. He’d wound up with a bad case of indigestion.
Tugging off his gloves, he said, “Mind if I sit?”
She glanced at the empty space beside her and scooted to make room. “Go ahead.”
He sat and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles and letting the gloves flop onto the space between them. A lazy, mint-scented breeze stirred her skirts. Water trickled between the banks, and the flutter of birds’ wings rustled the nearest cottonwood. Tenuous peace invaded him, chasing away the frustrations of the day, and he was afraid that it wasn’t the setting responsible but the woman at his side.
“Why do I smell mint?” Her needle dipped and lifted, the thin white thread stretching through the air.
“American germander. A member of the mint family. It grows wild in these fields.”
“It’s nice.”
He pointed to the cluster of purple flowers visible on the far side of the stream. “See those? That’s bee balm, useful for treating any number of ailments.”
From this angle, he could see her unusually shaped mouth and the freckle above it. The urge to trace the contours of those peach-hued lips overtook him. Curling his fingers into fists, he was relieved to see Jane and Abigail rushing over.
“Mr. Noah!” Jane was panting, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “We found a turtle!”
“It has red eyes!” Abigail added. She’d lost a bit of her shyness since he’d spent the day taking care of them.
“Did you name him?” he asked, unable to suppress a smile. Something about these girls brought out the boyish playfulness he’d thought he’d lost years ago.
“No.” Jane frowned. “We should think of one.”
“Benedict,” he suggested.
Her face scrunched.
“Wilbur?”
“Uh-uh.”
Abigail held out her hands. “There’s dirt under my fingernails, Momma.”
“That’s not the only place you have dirt,” Constance remarked wryly.
Indeed, both girls’ aprons bore signs of their play. He was surprised that Constance didn’t reprimand them. The pampered socialite he’d assumed her to be would have. But she wasn’t pampered or snobbish or idle. And out here, she wasn’t a socialite.
Jane grabbed her sister’s hand. “Let’s go before he gets away.”
Holding hands, the girls raced to their spot downstream.
“They love being outdoors,” she said, a note of satisfaction twined with wistfulness in her voice. “The fresh air. The wide-open spaces. Being in nature. It’s good for them.”
“Without their sausage curls and your fancy clothes, the three of you could almost pass as native Kansans.”
The multiple rings on her fingers destroyed the illusion. They looked cumbersome and out of place. He wanted to ask why she insisted on wearing them but refrained. He didn’t need to know. He shouldn’t want to know.
Her honey-hued gaze met his, and her lips curved into a tentative smile. “I’m glad.”
He fingered the yellow-and-white-striped fabric. “You’re an accomplished cook. You sew and scrub floors. Those aren’t lessons generally taught to upscale ladies like you, are they?”
“You’re judging again,” she said without heat. “I grew up very poor. We lived in the impoverished section of Chicago. I was only ten years old when my father died. Things were tight with his income, so after his death my mother had to work several jobs to support us. I started work at fourteen.”
The revelation stunned him. It also explained a lot. “Doing what?”
“I was fortunate to find work with an affluent family, the Murphys. I started out in the kitchen washing dishes. When I expressed interest in food preparation, the cook kindly took me under her wing. Later, I graduated to cleaning rooms. At seventeen, Mrs. Murphy invited me to help care for her toddler.” Her expression turned dreamy. “I loved spending time with Jimmy. He was a delightful child. So curious. We spent many mornings in the parks around their neighborhood, chasing butterflies and watching toy boats in the fountains.”
Her nurturing instinct must’ve been apparent to the mistress of the house. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have trusted her child with Constance. From what he’d seen, she was a loving mother. If his life had gone differently, if fatherhood had been a possibility for him, he would choose a woman like her to be the mother of his children.
Not a woman like her. You’d choose her. Constance.
His lungs constricted with the sting of loss. Want choked him.
Her whimsical beauty, her spirit and courage, along with the loneliness in her golden-brown eyes called to him, tempting him to throw caution to the wind and take a chance. He battled the impulse to take her small hand in his and give in. To agree to Will’s original plan.
With effort, he kept to his side of the bench. “Were you working at the Murphys’ home when you met Mr. Miller?”
“Mr. Miller?” A light dawned in her eyes and she frowned. “Oh. Yes, well, I met Ambrose several years later. The Murphys had moved to New York, and they’d helped secure another nanny position for me with friends of
theirs, the Johnsons.”
“He didn’t mind your employment?” Seemed to Noah that men like Miller would choose wives from among their own social circles.
“He didn’t know at first. He assumed I was a member of the Johnson household. A distant relative he’d never met. I didn’t give him that impression,” she hurried to clarify. “I didn’t lie. I thought he knew.”
“Let me guess. By the time he figured it out, he was already smitten.”
He glimpsed pain and regret in her expression before she ducked her head.
“I suppose.”
Sensing her unease with the subject, he nodded to her project. “What are you working on?”
Pink surged in her cheeks. “Curtains for the cabin. I—I hope you don’t mind. I noticed the space lacked color, and I thought to do this as a thank-you for your hospitality.”
Shame washed over him at the abysmal way he’d treated her. “Where’d you get that material?”
“It used to be one of my dresses.”
“I wish you hadn’t sacrificed your clothes for my home.”
“I don’t lack for clothes.” A crease appeared between her winged brows. “But if you don’t like the color or design, I can purchase different fabric from the store.”
“That’s not it. I don’t deserve your thoughtfulness. I said some things I’m not proud of.” Hooking his arms on the back of the bench, his chest rose and fell on a ragged breath. “I haven’t handled this situation very well.” He turned his head to look at her directly. “I’m sorry, Constance.”
Her throat worked. “I understand how trying this ordeal has been for you—a single man having three people foisted upon him with no warning. The timing hasn’t been ideal, either, considering your recent responsibility to the town.”
Noah’s response was lost when a pair of approaching riders crested the ridge. He stood, his hand going to the pistol at his hip, but relaxed moments later when he recognized the mounts.
