“I’m hoping the teacher will let me help out at school,” Elise said. “That way I could take Toby into town and be there to bring him home. If I do a good job, the city council might even pay me a little.”
“We’ll see about that next year.” Clay reached for another slice of bread. There was no butter. What little cream Elise was able to get from the poor cow, she churned and sold to the hotel in town.
They finished the meal in awkward silence, interspersed with even more awkward snatches of conversation. Afterward Clay insisted on washing the dishes while she got Toby ready for bed.
“He’s a nice man,” Toby mumbled as she tucked him in. “Is he going to stay?”
“We’ll see. Just go to sleep.” Elise kissed his forehead, breathing in the sweet little boy smell she loved so much. A tear scalded her cheek. So many things had gone wrong in her life. But at least she had her wonderful son.
She sang until Toby’s eyes closed in slumber. When she returned to the parlor, Clay was warming himself by the blaze he’d kindled in the fireplace. He was seated in the big wooden rocker he’d always favored, looking so much at home that for an instant it seemed as if he’d never left. Then Elise saw the tense expression on his face, and she knew the time of reckoning had come.
Settling into the chair he’d drawn up to face him, she stared down at her hands. A spot of crimson had oozed through the makeshift bandage on her thumb.
“Look at me, Elise.” His voice was rough and hard. Elise forced herself to meet his granite eyes.
“Why did you return my letters?” he demanded. “Do you hate me that much?”
Her breath sucked in, hurting. She shook her head. “I could never hate you, Clay. I just don’t understand how you could have done what you did.”
A muscle twitched in his left cheek. “So what is it you think I did? Where’s Buck? Didn’t he tell you what happened?”
“I haven’t seen your brother since he left with you on the cattle drive.”
He stared at her. “And the money? The twenty thousand dollars from the cattle sale?”
“Look around you, Clay. Would Toby and I be living like this if we’d had money?”
He sagged in the chair, looking as if he’d just been shot through the heart. Seconds passed before he found his voice. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”
Everything? Elise drew a ragged breath. She didn’t trust herself to tell him the worst. But she would tell him as much as he needed to know.
“I waited for you to come home,” she said. “When the time came, I watched the road every day, praying I’d see you. Weeks went by, and more weeks, with no word. Finally I drove the buggy into town to see the marshal. He offered to contact the authorities in Abilene.”
Her throat tightened, threatening to betray her emotion. She stared down at her tightly clasped hands.
“Elise, it wasn’t—”
“No. Let me finish.” She forced herself to meet his tormented gaze. “Two weeks later the marshal rode out to the ranch. He gave me a copy of the official report.”
Clay’s grip tightened on the arm of the chair. “What did it say? I want to see it.”
“I burned it. I couldn’t stand the thought of Toby ever reading the words on that paper.” Elise shook her head. “I only wish I could burn them out of my mind as well. Then I might be able to welcome you home.”
“What did it say?” Clay’s whispered words were etched in steel.
“You should know. You were there, in that awful place, with that woman when the fight broke out. Every time I close my eyes I can imagine you lying with her.”
Clay’s face had turned the color of alkali dust. His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Damn it, Elise, if you’d read my letters—”
“How could I, after what I’d learned? How could I open those envelopes and read more of your lies?”
Clay rose to his feet, looking angrier than Elise had ever seen him. Only the awareness of his sleeping son, in the next room, kept his voice low.
“Listen to me,” he growled. “I wasn’t with any woman. I went into that house looking for Buck. When I followed the sounds of a fight, I found three men trying to beat him up. One of them drew a knife. If I hadn’t come to his rescue, Buck might’ve been killed.”
He loomed above her, terrible in his silence. Elise rose to face him, her knees quivering beneath her skirts. “You’ve had three years to concoct that story, Clay. How can you expect me to believe you?”
He exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “Buck was supposed to tell you everything,” he said. “I made sure he got out of there before the law showed up—told him to get the money out of the hotel safe and hightail it back to you.”
“Well, Buck isn’t here. And neither is the money. All I have is your word, and after three years that isn’t worth much.”
He sank back into the chair. The firelight cast his face into harsh relief, deepening the lines of weariness and despair.
His hands were nicked and scarred in ways Elise didn’t remember from before. Prison must have been hell for a man like Clay. What had he done to survive? How had he found the courage to make it home?
She fought the urge to go to him, to brush the lank, untrimmed hair back from his face, to creep into his arms and feel his strength holding her close. It had been so long, and she had suffered so much hurt. But she had her pride. Even if he was telling the truth, how could she take him back again?
Lifting her chin, she forced herself to speak. “This is your ranch, Clay. And Toby is your son. I can’t force you to go. But I’m not ready to be your wife again. You can sleep in the bunkhouse. There are blankets on the beds and wood by the stove. Tomorrow I’ll gather up your clothes, so you’ll have something clean to wear.”
“Fine.” He rose from the chair, unfolding his long limbs with effort. “Don’t worry, Elise, I’m too tired to give you any trouble. Thank you for supper.”
Turning away, he opened the front door. His back was erect, his head high and proud, but his feet betrayed him. He was stumbling with exhaustion.
“Wait, you’ll need a light.” She thrust a straw into the fireplace and transferred its flame to the spare lantern that hung by the door. Clay accepted it with a silent nod and stepped out into the night. The door creaked shut behind him and closed with a subtle click.
Legs giving way, Elise sank into the rocking chair. The cushion still held the warmth of Clay’s body. His masculine touch lingered on her skin.
An avalanche of questions caved in on her. She hunched into a ball, her hands clutching her knees. Could she believe Clay’s story after all this time? Could she put the past behind her and forgive him? Even now, with her world shifting like river ice, Elise knew it was what she wanted. She’d wanted Clay from the minute he’d stepped into the house.
But what if he was lying? How could she let him make love to her while her mind was picturing where he’d been and what he’d done?
And what about their son? How much of the truth could she tell Toby, and how soon? He was such a tender little boy, and she would be giving Clay the power to break his heart.
As she sat up, Elise’s gaze fell on the sad little tree that stood in the corner, its needles already drying. She didn’t have the means for much of a holiday, but she’d done what she could. She and Toby had cut the pine in the far pasture where a stray seed had sprouted. In the past weeks she’d unraveled wool from an old afghan and knitted Toby a warm sweater. She’d also planned to stay up Christmas Eve making him some gingerbread men. Maybe she’d even cook one of their precious hens and make a pie for dinner. She could only hope that would be Christmas enough.
Clay’s arrival had turned everything upside-down. But that didn’t mean she should change her Christmas plans. The day was too important to a boy who had too little brightness in his life.
In the few days that remained, Elise resolved, she would try to remain calm and cheerful. When Christmas was done, she and Clay would confront their diff
erences.
Maybe then she’d be able to tell him everything.
Chapter Two
Clay lay on his back, staring up into the darkened rafters of the bunkhouse. He hadn’t bothered to light the stove. After three years in an unheated cell, he was used to the cold. And compared to his prison bunk, the sagging mattress that cradled his bones felt downright luxurious. Stripped down to his long johns and covered in blankets, he was more than ready for a long night’s sleep. But his churning emotions had kept him awake for hours.
He’d hoped to spend the night in a different bed, but he should have known Elise wouldn’t welcome him there. She’d been through a devil of a time. He couldn’t blame her for feeling betrayed. But, damn it, the woman had to know he was telling the truth. He loved her with his whole heart. He would never look twice at another woman, let alone sleep with one. Why couldn’t she trust him?
And Toby? Lord, the boy didn’t even know his own father. Three years ago he’d been a toddler. Now he didn’t remember that time. Clay ached with love for his son. But how could he show that love if the boy only saw him as a stranger?
How was he going to fix this godforsaken mess?
The rafters creaked as wind buffeted the roof of the bunkhouse. Sleet spattered the panes of the high window. Clay closed his eyes, listening as the fast-moving storm swept in. After three long years he was safely home where he belonged. But he felt as if he’d stepped into someone else’s life.
Everything had hinged on Buck’s making it home with the money. But something had clearly gone wrong because Buck had never arrived. Had he been robbed? Arrested? Even murdered? Clay’s fists clenched in the darkness. There could be no resolution until he learned what had become of his wild young brother.
He was beginning to drift. Tomorrow he would take stock of all that needed to be done on the ranch. Then, in the spirit of putting things right, he would begin. This was his land. This was his family. Somehow he had to make it all work.
Clay could feel himself sinking. He sighed as the darkness closed over his mind. He had come such a long way, and he was tired. So tired…
She leaned over him in the darkness, her moonlit hair hanging loose, brushing his face. When his hand reached up to touch her cheek he felt the wetness of tears.
“Elise—”
She hushed him with a finger; then, shifting closer, she lowered her sweet mouth to his. Her lips were warm. She tasted of peaches, cinnamon, summer rain and all the things he’d missed in that hellhole of a prison. With a low moan he drank her into his senses, breathing her aroused woman scent, tasting, touching. A shudder passed through her body as his tongue invaded her mouth, its tip stroking the silken surfaces in a thrusting pantomime of what he’d yearned to do for three long years. He caressed her body through the gossamer thin cotton nightgown, his palms molding the softness of her breasts and tracing the jutting curve of her firm little buttocks. She was his wife, so warm, so beautiful…
Easing away from him, she moved her hands to the fastening of his long johns. Her nimble fingers freed his arousal from the confines of fabric and buttons. His swollen shaft sprang upward, quivering in readiness as she raised her nightgown and straddled his thighs. Clay’s breath stopped as she poised herself above him and, with a little whimper, lowered her hips. As her satiny wetness slid over him, he groaned…
And woke up alone in the narrow bunk.
Fully awake once more, he lay staring into the darkness. His crotch was damp from the dream, his gut knotted with the pain of wanting what he couldn’t have. Whatever it took, he had to work things out between himself and Elise. This craziness couldn’t go on much longer.
The storm had passed, brushing the landscape with glittering ice. The waning moon shone through Elise’s bedroom window, casting ghostly patterns on the whitewashed wall. Too restless to sleep, Elise lay curled on her side. Except for a few familiar creaks and rustlings, the night was still. Toby would be fast asleep. But what about Clay? Was he warm enough? Would he be able to rest after his long ride?
Had she done the right thing, insisting that he sleep in the bunkhouse? Some men would consider it a woman’s duty to lie with her husband, whether she felt like it or not. But Clay wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t force her. Not if he knew she didn’t want him.
Clasping her knees, she huddled beneath the quilts. A tear pooled on the muslin pillowcase as the memories swept over her—Clay’s arms around her, his mouth on hers, his lean hard body filling her, loving her, the smell and feel and taste of him…
For a moment it was all she could do to keep from pulling on her boots, flinging a quilt over her nightgown and rushing across the yard to the bunkhouse. But no—the fears were already returning. Her heart might want him. Her body might ache for him. But the memories and the hurt would be there, driving them apart like a wedge.
How could she believe him?
And even if she did, how could she forgive him, when nothing could bring back what she’d lost?
It was too much to ask of any woman.
Morning was clear and bitter. Clay was up before dawn, breaking the ice off the watering trough and feeding the meager stock. All he found was the one milk cow and a horse that had been too old to take on the cattle drive. The other animals he’d left behind—the longhorn cows and their calves, the herd bulls, the pigs and the draft horses—were gone. He could only guess that Elise had sold them to pay the bills on the ranch. Lord knows what she and Toby were living on now. He would have to find a way to get money, even if it meant working in town or selling the strip of pastureland that bordered his neighbor’s property. Land was precious but he couldn’t let his family go wanting.
The house was quiet, with no smoke coming from the chimney. Clay gathered up some firewood and piled it on the back porch. Then he cleared the pump of ice, filled a bucket and carried it into the kitchen. Before leaving he made a fire in the stove. At least his wife and son would awaken to a warm house.
Elise’s bedroom door stood ajar. He fought the urge to open it a crack and look at her. Seeing her asleep, so soft and vulnerable, would only deepen his hunger. Likewise, he refrained from looking in on Toby. It could frighten the boy to wake up and see a strange man in his room.
A strange man…
Clay’s mouth tightened as he turned away from his son’s door and went back outside.
There was plenty of work to keep him busy. The woodpile was down to a few logs. Clay pried the ax from the chopping block and started on a gnarled cedar trunk that looked as if it had been horse-dragged out of the foothills. How had Elise managed the heavy work with no hired help? The thought of his dainty, petite wife chopping wood, hauling water and plowing the hard ground made him seethe. If he ever found out what had become of that money from the cattle sale…
He channeled his fury into every ax blow. By the time he was finished he was sweating beneath his long johns and the ground was littered with chunks of stove wood. Clay took a moment to gather the wood into a pile. Then he strode toward the corral to herd the cow into the milking shed.
He found a clean bucket next to the milking stool. Leading the cow into the stall, he tossed a forkful of hay into the feed box, gave her a moment to settle down, then crouched onto the stool and began pulling at the teats.
He hadn’t milked a cow in more than three years, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one forgot. His hands settled into the easy rhythm, squirting the milk into the tin pail. The aroma of fresh milk was strangely soothing. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the cow’s warm side.
The prickle of some sixth sense told Clay he was being watched. Slowly he turned around. A small figure, silhouetted against the sunrise, stood in the doorway.
Clay spoke in a whisper, half fearful that the boy might bolt at the sound of his voice. “Toby, what are you doing up so early?”
Toby inched into the milking shed. His hair was cow-licked from sleep, and it appeared he’d gotten dressed by himself. His coat was crookedly buttoned, h
is shoes on the wrong feet.
“Do you want to watch me milk the cow?” Clay’s question sounded awkward in the stillness.
The boy nodded. Clay returned to milking, conscious of the round blue eyes following his every move. After a long moment he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Toby was standing at his side.
“You’re my papa aren’t you?” the boy asked.
Clay’s throat jerked tight. “What—gave you that idea?”
“I sort of remembered you. So I thought about it and figured it out.”
Clay suppressed the impulse to gather his son into his arms. It was too soon. They were both too raw, too tender.
“Your mother didn’t tell you?” he asked.
Toby shook his head. “Why is she mad at you?”
“Did she say she was mad?”
“No, but I can tell. Is she mad because you were gone so long?”
“I’d say that’s a good guess.” Fearful of betraying his emotions, Clay turned back to the milking. Warm milk splashed into the pail.
“Where have you been?” Toby asked.
Clay hesitated. Lying would only make things worse later on. “I was in a place where I couldn’t leave,” he said. “I’ll tell you more when you’re older.”
The boy was silent. Clay fumbled for a diversion. “When I was your age I used to watch my father milk cows,” he said. “Let me show you something he used to do. Step back a little and open your mouth.”
Toby looked uncertain, but he did as he was asked.
“Ready?” Clay raised one teat and directed a squirt of milk into his son’s mouth.
Startled, Toby jumped back. He licked his lips. Then, like the sun coming out, his face lit up. He giggled. “Do it again, Papa!” he said.
Elise stood at the kitchen window, watching her husband and son walk out of the shed together. Toby was bouncing like a puppy, laughing as he tried to keep even with his father’s stride.
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