Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  These later months, though, she’d lost that worry, for surely no man could desire a woman who looked as she did.

  But as that worry faded, others grew to replace it.

  Would she be a good mother? Would her babe be healthy? Would the birth go well?

  Doc Prescott had agreed to come when the time came because he wasn’t nearly as likely to be stranded here as at the Circle T—and because Gordon insisted with his wallet.

  She’d heard the doctor talking to Gordon when he stopped at Natchez one afternoon in September to check her.

  “First baby at her age may not go easy, Gordon.”

  “Her age? Rachel’s not even thirty. What about my age?” Gordon said, then gave a booming laugh. “I’m near seventy!”

  “It’s different for a woman,” the doctor had said tartly. “I just want you to know. It may go hard with her.”

  The doctor said no more to her husband, and her efforts to draw him out had earned no more than vague reassurances that nature would lead her, as it had women through all time. She wanted to point out that the only place nature had led a number of women of her acquaintance during childbirth was the grave. But putting the thought into words seemed an invitation to disaster.

  Perhaps if she had had another woman to confide her worries to . . .

  But Ruth had moved to Chelico to live with her niece after Shag died, and Rachel hadn’t seen her since her last trip to town, back in August. Annie Brett was not around either, since she and their children had gone with Arnold to Montana when Gordon put him in charge of a spread there.

  So the only women around Rachel were the help in the house. And, while Myrna and Olive, the wife and young daughter of Gordon’s underforeman. Bob Chapman, seemed inclined to friendliness, they were most often kept at a distance from Rachel by Esther.

  Without a woman to talk to, Rachel would have given so much to have Shag by her side. She missed him with an ache that never went away.

  She shook her head at herself. Wishing again for what could not be. That would lead only to thoughts of other impossible wishes, and other aches.

  With a great sigh, Rachel rose from the dusk-dimmed window seat, pushing off with her hands against the cushion.

  She thought her time might be drawing near.

  While her knowledge in that area was suspect, she had great faith in the instincts that told her a harsh winter was fast closing in. Deep snow would make even a short outdoor journey impossible for her.

  Finding her old coat, two scarves and gloves, she wrapped her round body as warmly as she could, slipped out the side door without encountering Esther and headed to the snug stable to visit her horses. This was a pleasure she might not have for much longer.

  * * * *

  He had to know. Was this baby Rachel carried his?

  And what will you do if it is?

  Alba’s question never left him. Nick had no answer.

  The one other time it was mentioned between him and Alba in the seven weeks since his stop at the Texas Rose, her quiet words had only driven him further from an answer.

  “She gave him the Circle T, now she’s going to give Wood what he’s always wanted—an heir,” he’d said in bitterness. “But I’ll be damned if she’ll give him my child.”

  “Hermano, if she says and this Gordon Wood says the child is his, how could you fight them?”

  “I’ll find a way. I won’t have my child tossed aside like we were.”

  Instead of recoiling from his harshness, Alba had given him a long, thoughtful look, then shook her head. “If a woman gives this man what he so long wanted, his gratitude should lead him to give her many things. If he has longed for a child as you have said he has, he should give that child many things. He is rich, this Gordon Wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he can give this baby much. Even if you win the baby as your own, what would you give this child in the end?”

  He’d looked into his sister’s eyes then, and seen an answer to her question. Shame.

  Yet even that didn’t stop the gnawing in his gut that said he had to know.

  He had to see Rachel.

  He told himself he didn’t want to make trouble, he only wanted to know the truth. But he would march into the house and demand to see her if that was what it took. If his questions were overheard, if his demands carried an audience, so be it.

  Instead, he found himself slipping quietly into the stable on Brujo, aware no one had observed his arrival. He delayed the coming confrontation long enough to pass along the row of familiar horses, to reward whickers of recognition with a rub of the nose for Warrior, a mutter of praise for Fanny. Until he came to stand at the open door, preparing to head for the house.

  And then he saw her trudging toward him—head bent, muffled by scarves and poorly illuminated by the fading light, figure so unlike what it had been. Yet he knew her immediately, without question.

  In fascination, he watched how she adjusted her movement to adapt to the burden she carried before her.

  He couldn’t gauge his reaction. Disappointment that the confrontation would come here, in the darkening, musty stable instead of inside, amid the comforts she had traded herself for? Disquiet they would meet in private, with no chance of servants or husband walking into keep words and emotions in check?

  He stepped back, waiting in the shadows until she’d reached the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hello, my lovelies,” she crooned softly as she walked toward the first stall.

  She had nearly passed his niche in the shadows when Nick spoke.

  “Rachel.”

  She jolted to a stop. As she darted looks around her, a sound like a half sob escaped her. Was it fear? If Rachel had been given cause for fear, he would find Wood and kill him.

  The thought drove him a step nearer, out of the shadows, and she saw him.

  He could hear her breath rush out in a deep exhalation. “Nick. You’re here.”

  The scarf covering her hair slipped, revealing the paleness of her face without letting him read its expression.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re safe. I worried . . . but you came back.”

  “Brought my sister from Texas.” How could a few words of concern, a searching stare from a pair of hazel eyes, close his throat as tight as a noose? “And a herd. I’m ranching on the Wallace place.”

  “I’m glad. Shag would—Oh, Nick, Shag . . . Shag is dead.”

  “I know.”

  She nodded once. When she dropped her head a second time, it stayed there, and the sound he heard was surely a sob. Nothing could have stopped him from taking her in his arms then, not even himself.

  “Ah, Rachel.” He kissed her hair, her forehead, her brow. Her cheekbone, tasting tears there. “Don’t cry.”

  “I miss him. So . . .much.”

  “I know.”

  He stopped her words of sorrow and pain by taking her lips with his own. He delved into the heated welcome of her mouth, claiming it with his tongue. His response was immediate, and powerful. He wanted nothing more than to press against her until he found his place in her.

  Tightening his hold made him all the more aware of the rounded weight that she carried before her and that separated them.

  Easing his grasp somewhat, he pushed back her second scarf so her face caught more of the faint light. Her skin had a new fragility, a paleness without its usual blush from the wind and sun. She had been kept indoors. For some reason that knowledge re-ignited the anger he’d forgotten the past few moments.

  “Why did you marry Wood?”

  She drew back, yet remained in the circle of his arms. “You left.”

  “So then you were free to marry him, to make your damned fortune.” Anger, great hot clouds of it, welled up in him, anger like he hadn’t known even in the moment of seeing a man beat his sister. “I’d done my job, I’d served as stud and now you could give Wood the heir he’d always wanted.”

  She spun away fro
m him, but he caught her flailing arm and encircled her, so her back pressed against his chest.

  “This is my baby, isn’t it?” he demanded.

  “It’s my baby.” Her fierceness penetrated to some part of his mind, but didn’t stop him.

  One of his arms wound across her chest and his big hand clamped her elbow to her side. Her other arm was between her body and his chest. With her immobilized, he spread his free hand over the swell of her stomach, and spoke, low and hard into her ear.

  “You carry my child, don’t you?”

  She tried to twist away, but he held her firm. From below her breasts, the coat couldn’t button. The tails of a scarf trailed beneath the closed top part of the coat in a feeble attempt to cover her stomach. He pushed aside the streamers of scarf, and positioned his hand against the fabric that covered her. He thought he could feel heat against his hand.

  “I gave you this child when we were in the shack.”

  “Stop it, Nick.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re hurting me. Leave me alone.”

  He released her so abruptly, she had to steady herself against the rough door of the nearest stall.

  “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll leave you and the child alone. The way a stallion leaves the mare and the foal alone, once he’s served his damned purpose.”

  He mounted and rode past her with a haze of anger still so hot he barely took in the figure of a woman standing at the open door of the main house.

  * * * *

  Before his eyes came the image of Rachel that first day at Jasper Pond. Straight and sure in the saddle. Eyes open and honest as she had looked at him. And his inexplicable need to show himself to her. To let her see him, let her see in him. And for that long moment when she had accepted, he had a sense of triumph. Broken only when the pull of lust brought confusion to her eyes. She had run then. Not from him as he had told himself for so long—told himself because believing that eased the ache of not having her—but from her own desire.

  He’d realized that during the long months journeying to Texas and back. Nearly every night, in the darkness, he’d thought of Rachel. Of how she’d made love with him in the shack. Of the way she’d shed her shyness and fear, and opened to him.

  That was when he had realized that her turning from him at the pond, her accusing questions in the hotel in Hammer Butte, had come from fear. That was when he had accepted he was returning not only to his land, but to her.

  You’re hurting me .

  His gut heaved.

  He remembered the red marks his hand had left on her wrist that night by the creek during calf branding. And he remembered the faint green, yellow and purple colors her skin had still worn the next time he’d seen her. That was what he did to her without even thinking about it.

  And this time he’d meant to inflict hurt. He’d done it with words, and he’d done it with his touch. A woman carrying a child. Probably his child.

  Stop it, Nick . . . You’re hurting me.

  Rachel’s voice blended with the cries of his mother in his head, then echoed away to Alba’s moans.

  And now Nick Dusaq had joined those other men. The father he’d hated. The man he’d killed. How much better was he?

  Leave me alone .

  Yes, he would leave her alone. It was all he could give her. It was a much lesser punishment than he deserved.

  * * * *

  For the third night running, Nick and Davis came in for supper long after dark.

  Alba wasn’t concerned about the meal—she added broth to the stew when it threatened to become too thick, and she waited the biscuits until she heard them ride in.

  Alba was more than concerned about the men.

  An unnaturally warm, bright spell had opened December, and Nick was driving himself and Davis to bring in more hay. Alba found herself scouting the sky for signs of clouds. Hoping it stayed fair, a little afraid it would.

  The cabin door opened, and Davis entered with Nick on his heels.

  “Evening, Miss Alba.” Davis took off his hat and dragged a hand through his fair hair.

  “Evening—Oh!” The biscuit pan she’d been preparing to put in the oven clattered to the table.

  Both men froze.

  Alba darted forward and caught Davis’ face in her hands. He looked as if he’d absorbed a charge of lightning.

  “You’re bleeding! What happened?” She touched a corner of her apron to where blood streaked red through his pale hair. Where was the wound?

  “Bleeding? I don’t know . . .”

  Their eyes met and held. The air in Alba’s lungs seeped away.

  Nick, coming closer after hanging up his jacket, looked over her shoulder and said matter-of-factly, “It’s his hands.”

  Davis automatically turned his hands palms up, and Alba gasped at the raw flesh. She spun to her brother and snatched his hands before he could prevent it. His were nearly as bad.

  “Don’t fuss, Alba. Give us supper.”

  “There will be no supper until I tend these hands. I will—”

  “Alba—”

  “—wash them,” she finished, glaring at her formidable brother. “And then, yes—Davis, do you have that healing salve you put on the mare’s cut?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You will get it now, if you please.”

  He glanced toward Nick, but didn’t hesitate. “Yes, ma’am.”

  By the time he returned with the jar. Alba had gotten Nick seated, poured heated water into a shallow basin she balanced on her knees as she sat across from him and washed his palms with a soft cloth. The water was tinged red.

  Now, she took the jar from Davis and gently spread salve. Movement to the side made her turn her head, and she saw Davis trying to stifle a wince as he dripped one hand into water.

  “Stop. I will do it. There, hermano.” She wrapped a strip of cloth around each palm. “You are done.” As Nick rose she repeated, but with a different intent, “You are done. No more haying until your hands heal, both of you.”

  Nick didn’t look at her. “If the weather’s fine tomorrow we cut. Both of us.”

  The door thudded closed behind him, setting off a spate of Spanish from her, words she hadn’t even known she knew, and surely hadn’t learned from the good sisters.

  “Sit,” she snapped at Davis when he would have helped her pour fresh heated water into the pan.

  He sat.

  She put the pan on her knees and pulled his left hand toward her.

  “Why did you not wear gloves?” she demanded.

  “We wore gloves. It’s a matter of doing the same thing so many hours in a day when you haven’t done it before. Or least not in a long while. I used to do haying in Iowa, on my daddy’s farm.”

  His clear blue eyes met hers, and she read there a shy willingness to open a piece of himself to her in friendship, to give her some of his past for the asking.

  She could not ask. Because she would not—could not—give him any part of herself in return, especially her past.

  She finished with the water, then spread salve on his left hand. She glanced up, seeing in his face only acceptance.

  Bending once more, her heart felt both lighter and strangely constricted.

  She had seen his hands touch animals in his care with such tenderness. She had also seen them strain.

  Which would his hands show with a woman? The tenderness or the strength? Or could he bring both to a woman?

  She had begun on his right hand when he spoke again.

  “He’s worried about there being enough hay to winter over the stock, that’s all.”

  She paused, fingertips resting lightly on the heel of his open hand, and brought her eyes up to meet his. “That is one part. But that is not all.”

  Davis’ eyes flicked away, then came back. “No,” he agreed. “That is not all.”

  Their eyes acknowledged an understanding. More, a connection.

  Davis’ bandaged left hand cupped hers, still resti
ng so lightly on his right.

  She pulled her hand from his featherlight hold and reached for the final bandage. When she finished, he stood immediately.

  “Thank you, Alba.”

  “You are welcome, Davis.”

  Their formal exchange did not hide from her that for the first time he had called her solely by her name, not “ma’am” or “Miss Alba”, but as a man to a woman.

  * * * *

  “Mama, Doc Prescott isn’t coming.” Olive Chapman’s voice wavered from the doorway. “Billy just rode in and said Doc got called out yesterday to a lady clear the other direction. Joe-Max went on after him, but with it snowing, it’d take near two days for him to get here.”

  Rachel heard the words, but didn’t care. It would probably take Doc Prescott longer than that, if the weather was as bad as the last time she’d taken note.

  After a few bright, warm days, December had slid into cold and ice, taking a heavy toll on the cattle. Gordon had ridden out to assess how much of a toll, wearing such a deep frown that she’d wondered about Natchez’s finances. But now she didn’t care about that, either.

  She was going to die.

  She’d accepted that some time back, though she couldn’t have said when. The way a blizzard erased the most familiar trail, the pain had wiped away her everyday landmarks of time.

  Was it last night this had started, some twenty-four hours ago? Or was it the night before? Or a week before?

  She was going to die.

  As her mother had. As Millie Birch over on the Bar CB Ranch had last year.

  She was going to die. Without a doctor to ease her way. Without her husband to mourn her passing. Without Shag to tell her to hang on. Without her pa to give her a lesson. Without . . .

  “Nick.”

  “What was that, dear?” Myrna Chapman leaned over to catch her murmur. “Oh, no, dear, we can’t give you a bath now. You don’t want to catch a chill.”

  What did it matter if she caught a chill, since she was going to die?

  Still, Myrna was a good soul. Rachel hoped Myrna would care for her baby, rather than Esther, who stood at the foot of the bed and stared at her stoically.

  Baby . . .