An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3

by Davalynn Spencer

  Back to the blaze, he spread his stance, warming his cold fingers. Sophie stood by the door watching him, her arms folded at her waist. He’d give his saddle to know what she was thinking.

  “Come sit with me.” His invitation rolled out unbidden. It wasn’t his house or hearth. The old leather chairs weren’t his and she wasn’t his wife, but he’d make do with what he had and that was a belly full of lonely.

  Halfway to him, she stopped, cinching off his air. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  So sudden was his relief, it made his chest ache. She didn’t have to say us, but she had, and the word looped and settled inside him like a coiled rope.

  Returning with a tray, she set it on a small table between the deep-seated chairs that declared comfort and age went hand in hand. He pulled them closer to the fire and stretched out in the nearest one, feet up on the raised hearth.

  Sophie poured their coffee, curled into the other chair, and leaned toward the fire, elbows tucked tight, both hands around her cup. The firelight shadow-danced across her face.

  “I was worried about you.”

  Her voice came gentle, warming him more than the fire.

  What did a man say at a time like this when he couldn’t put action to his words?

  A log shifted and sparks scattered.

  He pulled his feet back. “You needn’t have.” That wasn’t enough and he reached deeper. “I got your supper.”

  He still hadn’t eaten it, and she might know that since she apparently went where she wanted when she wanted. Which suited him fine.

  She glanced his way. “There will be more of the same since Deacon and Cade weren’t here to eat it all on the first serving. Hash and biscuits the second time around.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She let out a little huff like she didn’t believe him, and when he looked at her, their eyes met and held.

  “I rode the perimeter this morning. To get the lay of the land.” Not that he had to give account of himself, but he wanted her to keep talking. He wanted to be with her, hear what she had to say.

  Lightning hit close, flashing through the windows, and thunder shook the house. Sophie flinched, tucking her arms tighter and sinking deeper into herself.

  He straightened in his chair, making room for her, then held his hand out.

  She looked him square in the eye, long enough to strangle his air, then joined him, fitting on the seat between his legs like he knew she would. He welcomed her with a quick hug, then rested his arms on the chair, giving her space. Freedom. If she didn’t feel constricted, maybe she wouldn’t fight the close proximity and just let him give her what comfort he could.

  She sat calmly, not tense, and soon eased back against him, smelling of supper and cinnamon. Her soft warmth seeped through his chest and into his soul and it was all he could do to not wrap completely around her. Instead, he rested his hands on her shoulders and felt them give beneath his touch. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  Mentally scrambling for normalcy, he cleared his throat. “I brought Blanca in and the stallion.”

  She turned and looked up at him, close enough for him to graze her lips, but the are-you-loco? look in her eye held him off.

  “I know.” He angled his head away from her hair and reached for his coffee, finding it good as always. “But it’s better than getting them both torn up fighting the inevitable.” He probably shouldn’t mention such things in her company, especially in such close company, but she was a farm girl and this was a ranch, and they were both in the life-giving business, though he’d never thought of it in those terms before.

  “Did you get any of the others?”

  She didn’t have to say which one.

  Dread twisted in the hollow of his chest. “Your mare took off. I aimed to bring her in with Blanca, but she bolted for the herd.”

  He braced for Sophie to bolt as well.

  “She went home.” Resignation escaped on a sigh.

  His tension went with it. “She’s done that before?”

  A nod answered, and she held her coffee but still didn’t drink it. “She’s afraid of lightning and thunder. Does fine in a snowstorm—just turns her backside to the wind like a bunch of cows. But let sheet lightning paint the sky, or what we’re getting now, and she’s gone. I once saw her jump a barbed-wire fence.”

  He sincerely hoped the mare didn’t try that a second time. Not at her age.

  He set his coffee aside and ran his hands up Sophie’s arms, returning to her shoulders. Her head tipped to one side, grazing his fingers.

  Rain lashed the house with a sudden roar, matching the roar of his heart.

  “Sounds like a gully-washer for sure,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  A thump from upstairs was anything but. He encircled her again, aware of what was coming and resenting the intrusion.

  “Willy’s up,” she whispered.

  The tousle-haired youngster appeared at the top of the stairs with a shapeless stuffed animal held tightly in one arm. “Tea, pease.”

  Sophie pressed into Clay and lifted her face to him. “At least he’s not scared.”

  Her breath was sweet and full of promise, and if not for Willy watching from above, Clay would lay claim to those lips, mere inches from his own.

  It was just as well he couldn’t. He sure enough didn’t want to spook her.

  She set her coffee on the tray and stood, her smile shy, hands holding tight to her apron. “I’m glad you’re safely home. You made it back just in time.”

  He couldn’t agree more. He’d made it back to Olin Springs and Sophie Price just in time to confirm what he wanted more than anything else in the world.

  ~

  Sophie bit the inside of her cheek, climbing the stairs reluctantly, her skin cooling already after leaving the shelter of Clay’s embrace. She felt safe with him, cocooned in his gentle strength, and she’d wanted to say so much more than she had. Thank the Lord for little boys and their perfect timing.

  She took Willy’s hand and tiptoed to Mae Ann’s door to find her sleeping amidst the storm. What a blessing. Bending close to her charge, she whispered, “Let’s go have supper. Mama can eat later.”

  “Tea, pease.”

  She squeezed his little hand, and they went downstairs to the kitchen, passing Clay who still sat by the fire. “Supper in ten minutes.”

  He gave her a nod and a hungry look, and it took all of her self-control to not jump like a twelve-year-old girl. How ridiculous could she get? He was a grown man, was probably starving, and could eat when and where he chose.

  She just wanted him to choose her.

  Wait. Choose to eat with her. Big difference.

  While she cut up the roast and carrots, Willy occupied himself with a cinnamon biscuit left over from breakfast, a daub of strawberry preserves, and a cup of lukewarm tea. Under the circumstances, if it spoiled his supper, so be it. At least he wouldn’t go hungry.

  If she hadn’t spent so much time at the window watching for Clay, she would already have supper warm and waiting. She really needed to prioritize her duties. Worrying over a grown man who knew how to take care of other people’s livestock as well as himself should not be a priority.

  But oh, what a grown man he was.

  As she took down the bread bowl, her thoughts fell on her mother and Todd. Praying while she stirred up a batch of biscuits was becoming a regular habit. She lifted her family by name, asking that they be kept safe. Mae Ann and the baby, as well. Cade and Deacon. The Eisners.

  And the mare—that she’d made it home. Poor thing, her world was not right unless she was in her own barn with its familiar sounds and smells.

  Oddly enough, Sophie didn’t feel that way about the farm any longer. In spite of loving her mother and brother, the place wasn’t quite home, for a certain someone with whom she’d like to make a home of her own wasn’t there.

  Chapter 14

  Clay found the body at the fence line, tangled in the wire. A char
red post and singe marks on the mare’s legs told the story.

  How would he tell Sophie?

  Duster shied from the carcass, ears sharp, nostrils flaring. Horses smelled death and sensed it differently than people, often scouting far around a place where the dead had fallen even months before.

  Clay lifted his rope and stepped down, talking low and steady to the gelding. “Easy boy. We owe it to the old girl to get her someplace private. Away from the herd.”

  Away from Sophie.

  He cut the wire, then rigged a harness and tied on to his saddle horn, dragging the body through the pasture and around to the backside of the knoll where he’d earlier surveyed the ranch. He left the mare near a juniper patch, partly sheltered and away from the creek. Nature would carry her off. He didn’t want Sophie to see that, though she likely knew about such things having grown up in these high parks.

  He coiled his rope and reached for his saddle horn, but Duster pinwheeled, refusing to stand still. Clay pulled the coils tighter, tucked the tail in the honda, and left the rope and his gloves on the mare’s shoulder. They could both be replaced.

  Duster blew and stomped at his approach, but Clay swung up and topped the knoll for a clear view. The mare hadn’t been with the herd, and the other horses grazed as usual. None were down.

  Returning to the charred post, he spliced the wires, then circled to the bull’s pasture. The yearlings and late heifers and calves were all sound. From the looks of things, the old mare was the only casualty from last night’s storm.

  What she’d feared had found her, but he knew better than to second guess himself about not getting her to the barn. It did no good. Maybe it was just her time. And maybe Sophie wouldn’t blame him for her death.

  On his way to the house, birds sang in the cedars and scrub oak like they’d never seen the sun before. Red-wing blackbirds swarmed the cottonwood trees in the yard, and water pooled in small ponds, chickens skirting the puddles. He tied up at the cabin, went inside for a soap cake, and at the pump scrubbed until his fingers were red.

  He’d missed breakfast, but Sophie might have saved something in the warmer for him, and his hope rose as he stepped through the front door and dropped his hat on a hook. Fried potatoes and side pork. Gravy and biscuits. He pulled off his muddy boots and socked it into the kitchen.

  She wasn’t there, but the back door was open and he peeked out to the porch. She was up to her elbows in wash suds, hair hanging over the side of her face, and Willy “helping,” as wet as the laundry.

  Clay’s heart hitched and he eased back, poured himself some coffee, and found a plate in the warmer. Sophie Price warmed more than his food. He needed to find his own place and build up his business so he’d have more to offer her than a buckskin gelding and a pouch of surgical instruments.

  “Mustu Cay!” Willy bounded into the kitchen trailing water in his wake.

  Sophie followed, nearly as wet.

  “Good morning.” She pushed her hair back and smoothed her apron. “Excuse the way we look. We’ve been doing laundry.”

  She went to the stove and moved the coffee over the firebox. Willy climbed into his chair asking for tea, please. The kid needed to learn to drink coffee.

  “I’m riding into town but can take the buckboard if you need anything from the mercantile. Looked like Deacon might have cleaned out your stores.”

  “Come to think of it, yes. There are a few things. I’ll make a list.”

  She returned with a pencil and paper and sat down across from him, smelling like wet clothes and lye soap.

  “I’d go with you, but of course that’s not possible. Not for quite some time, and then probably on a Sunday to church.”

  She flicked him a glance.

  He maintained a practiced, neutral response.

  “Would you mind stopping by Maggie’s and asking Betsy if she’s talked to the Eisners. Find out how they’re doing if you can. More specifically, Abigail, if you don’t mind.”

  She blushed like a summer rose and he gulped his coffee, welcoming the burn.

  “I shouldn’t ask that, but … well … you …” Her hands flailed around, plucking words from the air.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, trying not to laugh at her fluster. “It’s all right. I’ll be stopping by the livery for veterinary calls. And I want to see how Maggie’s doing.”

  Sophie’s hands and expression stilled, and she eyed him like a schoolmarm searching for a chalk thief. “You think she’s not doing well, don’t you.”

  Straight-forward Sophie had returned.

  The inevitable was inevitably hard to address. Strengthened by the memory of holding her the night she wept over the Eisner’s baby and the way she settled against him during the storm, he reached across the table and covered her hand. Warm, capable. Womanly.

  “Maggie’s up in years, and the signs are there.”

  Sophie flinched.

  He curled his fingers around hers.

  “But she’s healthy and well-cared for. Loved.”

  And he was a coward.

  He tightened his hold the slightest bit and lowered his voice. “Like your mare.”

  He felt realization hit. Felt it in the tensing of her fingers, the flaring of her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled hard and he let go. A sob broke from her and she covered her mouth with a glance toward Willy.

  Clay had noticed a pull toy by the hearth the night before, and he leaned close to the boy. “How would you like to go in the other room and play with that wooden horse on wheels for a little while?”

  Willy’s face lit with the idea, and he slipped off his chair and hurried into the great room. Clay walked around to Sophie and pulled her to her feet.

  She came willingly, and he encircled her, blocking out the world and storms and anything that could hurt her.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get the mare in last night.”

  Sophie shook her head, her whisper hot against his chest. “She wouldn’t have let you even with all your horse-handling skill. Her fear was too great. Too long set within her.”

  Something about those last words burned into him like a premonition, and he cupped her head in his hand and kissed her hair.

  She wrapped her arms around him and held on like she meant it.

  ~

  With Sophie’s list in his vest pocket and his saddlebags under the buckboard seat, Clay maneuvered mud and traffic on Main Street, marveling at how each churned up the other.

  Thatcher was out front of the hotel, supervising a boy washing the window and pointing out spots he’d missed. Poor kid.

  The sheriff’s office door was closed, and smoke twisted from the black chimney pipe.

  Clay continued to the opposite end of town and turned around at the church house, stopping first at the livery. Erik’s hammer sang from the back of the stable, and John pitched a fork load of soiled hay into a wheelbarrow.

  “Mornin’.”

  The kid back-handed sweat from his forehead, but smiled when he turned around and saw who was speaking. “Mornin’, Mr. Ferguson. I have a message for you here from a man whose horse ain’t eatin’.” He pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his dungarees.

  “When did he call?”

  “Day before yesterday. But I told him you’d be by and I’d let you know.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Clay walked back to where Erik was fitting a shoe to a twitchy gelding snubbed to a stout beam. He took hold of the horse, muttering under his breath, and ran his hand along its neck.

  “Danke.” Erik went to the anvil for another tap on the shoe and returned with a smaller hammer. From a pocket in his leather apron, he counted out eight horseshoe nails, put seven of them between his teeth before he bent the back leg, and pulled the hoof between his knees.

  He sank the first nail, twisted off the end, and repeated the process six times. Then he clinched them all the way around, dropped the hoof, and returned the unused nail to his ap
ron pocket.

  Laying a beefy hand on the horse’s rump, he walked around to the other side where he slid the clincher in a wooden box on the ground nearby and drew out a rasp. “Did you talk to the boy?”

  “He told me a fella stopped by wanting me to look at a horse that won’t eat.”

  Erik grunted as he lifted the other back leg.

  Clay held the horse until the smithy finished the last two shoes, then turned it out in the corral.

  “Is gut.” Sweat ran off the big man’s brow, and he wiped his eyes with a rag from the nail pocket. “Not many come, but we tell them when they do.”

  “Danke,” Clay said with a grin and a finger to his hat. He returned to the buckboard, certain that John was faring better than the kid washing windows for Thatcher.

  At the Gazette, he bought another paper, though he hadn’t read the first. Evening fodder that would bring him up to date on the community. Farmers usually posted the latest remedy they’d tried and flowered things up with their opinions.

  He folded the paper under his arm and braced himself for Sarah Reynolds at the mercantile. Sure as summer follows spring, she was there arranging seed packets on a table. As soon as his entry jingled the bell, she went to fluttering and following him around the store. It was all he could do not to ask if she had something in her eye. But she’d likely throw her head back so he could take a look and he wasn’t up to that right now or ever.

  Instead, he gave Mr. Reynolds Sophie’s list and busied himself at the counter trying out gloves until he found a pair that fit. As an afterthought, he chose a smaller pair on the chance that Sophie didn’t have any. He’d never seen her wearing gloves with the old mare, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea for her to have them. The memory of her warm hands that morning made him want to keep them protected.

  Reynolds tallied the order on Parker’s ledger page and returned the list to Clay.

  He paid for the gloves, loaded the stores, and drove to Maggie Snowfield’s.