“There’s oatmeal on the stove,” she said. “You’ll want to eat it before it cooks dry and sticks to the pan.”
“Fine. I’ll do that.” Clay handed her the flour sack that held bread and apples for their lunch. “Sorry I didn’t make it inside for breakfast.”
She ignored his apology. Things were strained between them after last night. A few hours apart might do them both good.
“We usually get back around three o’clock,” she said. “I’ll start supper then.”
“Take your time.” Clay boosted Toby onto the seat and tucked a quilt around him. A glance at the early morning sky confirmed that the weather was clear.
“Aren’t you coming with us, Papa?” Toby asked.
“Not today, son,” Clay said. “Stay warm and mind your mother. I’ll see you when you get home.”
The boy waved as Elise guided the one-horse buggy down the drive toward the gate. Clay returned the wave, feeling an unexpected pang of separation. How had he survived the past three years without his family?
Toby would enjoy the Christmas service, he reminded himself. And there’d likely be other children at the church. Maybe he’d get a chance to play with them. The boy needed friends.
Clay finished the routine chores and sat down to a breakfast of oatmeal and fresh milk. Even cold, it was better than the slop he’d been forced to eat in prison. Afterward he scrubbed the pan to save Elise the trouble and went back outside.
By now the sun was up, a glittering diamond bright on the frosted pasture. Clay stood on the porch, warming his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the yard. There was plenty of work to do be done on the fences and outbuildings. But maybe he’d start by bagging a mess of quail for Tuesday’s Christmas dinner. The birds were small and a bother to dress. But their dark, succulent breast meat was like a taste of heaven.
Taking the shotgun down from the rack above the door he checked the chambers, pocketed some extra shells and headed around the house to the orchard, where the quail liked to winter.
The orchard was older than the house. Planted years ago and abandoned, Clay had found it untended and dying when he homesteaded the ranch. Seasons of pruning and care had made the trees as productive as they were beautiful. But now the branches were thick and tangled. The orchard would need pruning again in early spring if it was to bear a decent crop.
This morning the orchard was silent. The chattering flocks of quail were gone. Clay discovered the reason when a rooster-size goshawk flapped off a high limb to circle into the sky. With a predator in the neighborhood, the birds would be scattered and hiding. His quail hunt would have to wait for another time.
Clay shouldered the gun and began walking from tree to tree, checking each one for disease and pondering which limbs to cut away come spring. Morning light shone through the branches, casting sun-dappled shadows on the ground. Long yellow grass, stiff with frost, crackled under his feet.
The largest tree stood in the middle of the orchard. It must have been planted long before the others because its thick trunk was gnarled with age. Elise had always favored that tree, he recalled. Many was the time he’d found her there on warm summer days, curled in its shade with a book or with Toby on her lap. Now, as he looked up into the branches his eyes lingered on an abandoned robin’s nest. He remembered how, in the spring, Elise had hung out strands of bright yarn for the birds to use in their weaving. This nest was drab, with no traces of color.
Where had she gone, his beautiful, joyful wife? What could he do to bring her back?
Winning his way into her bed was something he wanted badly. But Clay knew that wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to hear her laugh, to see her smile and know that Elise was truly happy.
But how could he get past that wall of bitterness she’d thrown up between them?
Only when he stubbed his boot on a rock did Clay happen to look down. At his feet was a small mound of weathered earth, cleared of leaves and bordered by carefully placed stones. Anchored to its center with a forked twig was a shriveled bouquet of cornflowers, bound with a faded pink ribbon.
He stared at it, uncomprehending for an instant. Then the truth sank home.
Clay’s knees gave way beneath him. The gun slipped from his shoulder as he dropped to the ground, fists balled against belly. His face twisted with grief as he grasped the meaning of what he’d found. He wanted to scream curses at the sky, to howl like a wounded animal.
It all made sense now—Elise’s anger, her refusal to forgive him, everything.
But why, in God’s name, hadn’t she let him know?
Elise stood by the buggy, her cloak wrapped tightly against the chill. Her gaze followed Toby as he raced around the churchyard, playing tag with a half dozen other children. Some older members of the congregation disapproved of such behavior on the Sabbath. But most parents welcomed the chance for their youngsters to burn off energy between the long church service and the ride home.
The Christmas program had been rich in tradition, with candles, carols, a choral reading from St. Luke by the older children, and a sermon on the spirit of Christmas. In the past, Elise had loved the holiday. Now the message was bittersweet. How could she celebrate in the true spirit of love and forgiveness when her heart felt as cold as a stone?
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. McAllister.” Marshal Sam Dodson had been at the service. Tall and rawboned, with iron-gray whiskers and one bad eye, he had served at his post for as long as Elise could remember. “I hear Clay’s come home.”
Elise didn’t ask him how he knew. Maybe the authorities in Kansas had sent him word of Clay’s release. Or maybe someone had seen Clay on the road.
“Yes, he’s home.” Elise kept her eyes on Toby’s blond head as he dodged among his playmates. “When I told him about the arrest report, Clay said he’d gone into that place looking for Buck, and that the man he struck down was going for Buck with a knife.”
The marshal fingered his moustache. “Now that makes sense,” he drawled. “Clay’s a good man. I had a feeling he wouldn’t have done what he did without a good reason.”
“So you believe him?”
“I’ve never known Clay McAllister to lie.” The marshal’s gaze narrowed. “Have you?”
Elise shook her head. “It’s just that, all this time, I’ve been imagining him in that awful place with one of those women. And then after what happened with the baby—”
“Have you told him about the baby?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for the right time.”
“Lord’s mercy, woman!” the marshal growled. “Your husband’s home! Get the poison out of your system, forgive him and move on! If you can’t do it for Clay’s sake or your own, do it for that boy of yours!”
Elise blinked away a tear. “Don’t you think I want to? I love Clay. I want to believe him, but…” She shook her head, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Clay says he sent Buck home with the money from the cattle sale. But Buck never arrived, so I never got to hear his side of the story. Maybe if we could find out what happened—”
“Well, that’s easy enough. Buck can tell you himself—that is, if he’s sober enough to remember.”
Elise stared at the marshal. “You’re saying you know where he is?”
“I’ve known all along. Buck’s over in Ridgeview City. He sweeps the livery stable for a few scraps of food and a place to sleep. From what I hear, he spends most of his time bumming drinks at the saloons.”
Elise felt her knees go slack. She sagged against the side of the buggy. Seconds passed before she could trust herself to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.
“You had your own troubles, girl. I figured you didn’t need any more.”
With a farewell nod, the marshal drifted off to join his wife. The tag game drew to an end as parents called their children to the buggies. A biting wind raked the trampled grass where they’d played.
Toby came bounding toward the buggy, his plump cheeks red with cold. Elise caught him in her a
rms and swung him onto the seat. He yawned as she snuggled him into the quilt. With luck he would doze off and sleep all the way home.
As she climbed into the driver’s seat, the weight of what she’d learned pressed on her like a load of granite. Buck was living in disgraceful circumstances, just a few hours away from the ranch. In all this time he’d made no effort to contact her.
What had happened to him—and to the money?
If Buck had come back to the ranch, even without the cash, both of them would have been better off. He could have told her the truth about Clay’s arrest. And he could have stayed to help her with the heavy work. Maybe if she hadn’t been chopping wood that day—”
The guilt that welled inside her was as sharp as acid. She should have been resting. But she’d taken one chance too many and had no one to blame but herself.
All that remained now was telling Clay what had happened, and telling him about his brother.
Clay was a good man, but he did have a temper. Lord help her, what would he do when he learned the truth?
Clay stood on the front porch, watching as the buggy came down the road and turned at the gate. Relief swept over him at the sight. With clouds moving in, he’d begun to worry about a storm. But now his loved ones were safely home.
How was he going to begin with Elise? There were so many questions to be asked and answered. What had gone wrong? Had the baby lived? Did it have a name? Would Toby remember what had happened?
His throat tightened as he imagined his wife standing beside that lonely little mound, bending to lay flowers on the earth. Had she dug the grave herself? Had anyone else been there?
Had she meant to keep it a secret?
Emotions churning, he strode out to meet the buggy as it pulled up to the corral. Toby was sitting up, bouncing and waving as his father approached.
“So how was church?” Clay lifted the boy and swung him off the seat.
“Good. I got to play tag. Nobody caught me.”
“Fast, are you?” Clay lowered his son to the ground. “Well, let’s see how fast you can run into the house and change your Sunday clothes.”
As Toby dashed for the porch Clay walked around the buggy to help his wife to the ground. He was still weighing the wisdom of telling her what he’d found when he looked up and saw her face.
Strain was visible in every line and shadow of Elise’s expression. Something had happened in town. Until he knew what it was, he’d be wise not to stir up more trouble. Maybe later, after Toby was asleep, he could get her to sit down and talk. Only when the slate was washed clean could they hope to make a new start.
Clay reached up and took her hand. Her fingers were icicles through her thin wool mittens. Her eyes avoided his gaze as he helped her to the ground. In the old days he’d joked that he could read her thoughts. She’d been so transparent then, so trusting. Now, when Elise looked at him, it was as if she’d covered her face with a mask.
What was behind that mask?
If he wanted his family back, he needed to find out—soon.
Elise washed the last of the supper dishes and dried her hands on a towel. The cut on her thumb had healed to a thin pink line. Since she no longer needed the bandage, she’d insisted on cleaning up while Clay told Toby a bedtime story.
From the parlor, she could hear the rumble of his deep voice, interspersed with Toby’s giggles over the misadventures of a baby bear named Benjamin. She’d forgotten what a gifted storyteller her husband was—just one of the many things she’d loved about him.
She and Clay had known each other since they were children, growing up in the same Kansas town. Elise had loved him for as long as she could remember. She’d loved the powerful size of him, the dimple in his left cheek and the way his sandy-brown hair curled low on his neck. She’d loved his gentleness, his humor, and the way he’d taken responsibility for his young brother after their parents died. Four years older than Elise, Clay hadn’t paid her much attention. Then one day, when she was eighteen, he’d noticed her, and all her dreams had come true.
She had loved Clay with every beat of her heart. And she’d truly believed he loved her, too. Maybe that was why the arrest report, and all it implied, had left her shattered.
The day after tomorrow would be Christmas. If she could have one wish it would be to feel that love and trust again—to forget the past and know the peace of forgiveness. But how could that be, when so much damage had been done—not only from his side but from hers?
The story had ended. Dressed for bed, Toby scampered into the kitchen ahead of his father. “Can Papa tuck me in?” he asked.
Elise nodded. “Yes, but only if you promise to go right to sleep.”
“I will.” Catching Clay’s hand, the boy tugged him toward the bedroom. A moment later Elise heard the murmur of their voices as Toby said his prayers.
With a sigh, she untied her apron and laid it over the back of a chair. Her nervous hands smoothed her hair into place. Most nights, Toby fell asleep soon after his head touched the pillow. She wouldn’t have long to wait before Clay returned to the parlor. Then the moment of reckoning would come.
The logs in the fireplace were still burning. Elise pulled her chair close to the hearth and picked up the basket of straw she’d gathered. She’d come up with a way of tying the stems together in the middle, so the ends radiated outward like the points of a star. Hung on the tree, the makeshift decorations looked dainty and festive. But she was going to need a lot of them. Tomorrow Toby could help make paper chains and some figures out of salt dough. But the straw ornaments were too fragile for his young fingers.
Picking up a few straws she fixed them in place, gauged their center and picked up a length of thread. But her hands were shaking. Straws and thread tumbled into her lap. She pressed her palms to her eyes, wiping away furious tears. Christmas was supposed to be a happy time. Why couldn’t she just put the past aside and celebrate her husband’s return?
“Elise?” Clay’s hand brushed her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard him come into the room. How long had he been standing behind her?
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
Elise’s only answer was a little choking sound. She struggled for composure as he turned his chair to face her and sat down. The burning logs crackled in the silence.
“I found the grave today,” he said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
She pressed her lips tight, waiting for the words to come.
“When were you going to let me know?”
“Soon.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable. “The baby was yours, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she said.
His breath rasped in his throat. “Lord, girl, that question never crossed my mind. Just tell me what happened.”
She stared down at her hands, gathering courage before she spoke. “I didn’t know about the baby until a few weeks after you left. I was so excited, Clay. I knew you’d be happy, too. Then I found out you weren’t coming back, and I found out why.”
“Elise, it wasn’t—”
“Let me finish while I can. The money was running low. I had to sell most of the stock and let the hired hands go. By the first snowfall, it was just Toby and me here alone.”
She stared into the burning coals. “As I got bigger the chores got harder,” she said. “The ones I could, I let go. But we needed water in the kitchen. We needed to bathe and wash clothes. And we needed firewood.”
Clay’s big hands had tightened on the arm of the chair. “Couldn’t you have gotten someone to help you? Someone from the church, maybe?”
Elise raked back a strand of damp hair. “I could have, if I’d asked. But I was proud. Too proud to ask for charity with a husband in…prison.” Her voice faltered. Clay was staring at her as if he already knew what she was going to say.
“By my reckoning, the baby was due in May. It was early April. There was a spring storm moving in, and I wanted to lay in a good store of wood. I spent most
of the day chopping. By suppertime I could barely drag myself into the house.” She sucked in her breath. “After I got Toby to bed, the pains started. The rest happened fast—too fast to get help. By midnight it was all over.”
“Elise—” He was half out of his chair, uncertain whether to go to her. She motioned for him to sit.
“It was a little girl, Clay. A beautiful, perfect little girl with the tiniest fingers and toes…” The tears had welled over. They spilled down her cheeks as she spoke. “As soon as I could get up I wrapped her in a baby blanket, took her outside and dug the grave. Toby never saw her. I don’t believe he remembers any of it.”
Clay was on his feet, looming over her now. “For the love of heaven, Elise, why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you let me know?”
She rose to face him, meeting the anguish in his eyes. “Don’t you see? If I’d had the sense to rest, I wouldn’t have lost the baby. It’s my fault our little girl isn’t here. That’s what I live with, Clay. It’s what I’ll live with for the rest of my life!”
Chapter Four
Clay’s awful silence hung between them. The anguish in his eyes was as damning as a curse. Under his gaze, Elise felt herself begin to crumble. Her knees dissolved beneath her. Her hand clasped the back of the chair. Her body shook as sobs welled in her throat.
Blinded by tears, she sensed that he was moving. Maybe he was turning to walk away. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. What she’d allowed to happen was unforgivable.
She waited for the sound of footsteps and the click of the door latch. But what she felt was his hands drawing her close. His arms went around her, supporting her, rocking her like a child. His lips traced her hairline, nibbling kisses between muttered words. “It wasn’t your fault, girl. If I’d been there you wouldn’t have been working like that—like a man. I’d have taken care of things. I’d have made sure you rested.”
She raised her damp face. “But don’t you see? I should have known better than to—”
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