Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  Her baby . . .

  Rachel felt its movement inside of her, but not as forcefully as before. Was the baby catching her weakness? If she died before the baby was born, it would never have a chance to live. She couldn’t die. Not yet.

  “No doctor. We must do this, then,” came Esther’s voice, from far away. “You must do this, Mrs. Wood.”

  Rachel heard the sound before she felt the sting on her cheek. She blinked her eyes open to find Esther’s face practically in hers. Slap. The woman had slapped her.

  “Oh! Esther!”

  Rachel heard Myrna’s protest, but it had no impact on the housekeeper.

  “Rachel! You hear me. You must do this. You must do this even though it will hurt more.”

  Rachel’s eyes dropped closed, “So tired.”

  The woman was shouting at her. “Rachel!”

  Rachel! Rachel, stay awake, dammit!

  “Nick?” She opened her eyes, looking for the intense black eyes. “Am I dreaming?”

  No. I’m here, Rachel. I’m going to get you out of this, but you have to help. You understand? Rachel! Goddammit, you stay awake .

  Nick.

  Hands shook at her. “You must do this, Rachel. You can’t be weak or your baby will die. You must do this. For your baby.”

  Her baby . The baby she and Nick had created in a white-hot blaze amid the blinding white of a Wyoming blizzard.

  “Baby.”

  “Yes. Your baby needs your strength now.”

  Rachel locked into the dark eyes of the woman shouting at her.

  “For . . . baby.”

  “Yes. For your baby.”

  * * * *

  The commotion downstairs woke Rachel. Her son slept in the crook of her arm, contented after nursing his fill. The bed linens were cool and clean, the pillows behind her smelled of lavender.

  Though her son was only five days old, the hours of sweat and pain and blood that had brought him into the world felt distant and dim. As did the fear.

  The rumble of voices below informed Rachel that Gordon had returned, and he’d been told of the birth of the baby he would claim as his son. Heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs.

  “Well, where is this baby?” he demanded jovially.

  She heard the combined hushing from Myrna and Esther on the landing, and smiled faintly as she feathered a kiss to the downy head of her baby.

  The door opened, with the two women entering first, perhaps to demonstrate the proper soft-footed approach to the big man who followed.

  Gordon’s lined face was florid with the wind and cold. He hadn’t stopped to take off his bulky buffalo coat, though he held his hat between his gloved hands.

  “Hello, Gordon,” Rachel said softly. She would ask him shortly what conditions he had found during his survey of Natchez and Circle T lands. For days, she had existed in a cocoon that included only her son, herself and the few people necessary to their well-being. But that was temporary, and her concern for her land was not. Especially since someday it would be her son’s.

  “My dear.” Gordon’s voice thickened as he stopped just inside the door. “I am sorry you have had such a difficult time, Rachel. Are you all right?”

  “I will be, Gordon, before very long.” She held a hand out, touched to see this big man so tentative. “But come see the newest arrival at Natchez.”

  If he noticed she shied away from calling the baby his son, he gave no sign. He smiled broadly, tossed his hat on a chair, followed by his coat, then came to her bedside.

  She shifted the bundle in her arms, holding aside the blanket, to give Gordon a better view of the sleeping baby.

  “Isn’t he the sweetest thing,” cooed Myrna from behind Gordon.

  Esther said nothing, though her leathery face softened.

  But Gordon made no move to touch the baby, standing utterly still and staring.

  “Leave us.” His words were so low, both Myrna and Esther looked uncertain if they’d heard right.

  “Leave us!” he bellowed.

  The baby flinched, a frown tucking his tiny eyebrows, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  Myrna, after one horrified glance from Gordon to Rachel, scurried out. Esther moved more slowly, her eyes never leaving Gordon’s face. He seemed unaware, staring only at the child, long after the door clicked closed. Rachel, too, held her silence.

  Fear came first, but it didn’t last. If he wanted out of their bargain, she would take her child and leave. And she would do whatever needed doing to keep her baby safe. There was no room for fear.

  “A black-haired babe.” No emotion rippled Gordon’s voice, absolutely none. He never took his eyes from the child.

  “Yes.”

  “You have light hair. Mine was nearest red before it went white.”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  “We both have light skin, but the child’s is nearest pale honey.”

  She fought a dizzying confusion. He had to know the baby wasn’t his. He’d never touched her. A man couldn’t get to his age and not know how babies were made—and how they weren’t.

  “Gordon, I told you that I carried a baby when we married. I made no secret of it to you. You said—”

  “No, you made no secret of it,” he interrupted. He pushed the hair from his face with one shaking hand as he turned his back on Rachel and the baby. “A black-haired babe.”

  He dropped into the chair by the empty cradle. He made a low sound that repeated several times before Rachel realized Gordon Wood was laughing.

  The sound swelled, until he roared in laughter that echoed with pain.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The door opened silently. Esther’s eyes went first to the baby, then to Rachel. The women exchanged a long look before Esther’s gaze moved to the man slumped in the chair, still racked by explosive laughter.

  He caught sight of her and barked, “Get out.”

  She cast a look toward the bed, and Rachel saw deep in those dark eyes a true concern. There had been no warmth between the two women, but this baby united them. Both of them silently acknowledged it.

  “It’s all right, Esther. We’re okay.”

  The woman quietly closed the door, but Rachel felt certain the housekeeper would be outside the door, waiting.

  Gordon’s rough laughter rumbled down to something nearer a sob. At last, he gave a long sigh, and another.

  “Are you all right, Gordon?”

  “I could’ve had black-haired babes of my own,” he said, gazing into the empty cradle. “Had an Indian wife, and I could’ve had half-breed, black-haired babes.”

  Rachel stared at him in astonishment. “But you never said . . . I never heard that you’d been married.”

  “We weren’t. Not by white men’s laws.” Gordon slowly turned toward her.

  “You should have told me.”

  He looked faintly surprised. “It’s no concern to you. You’re my legal wife. It was a common thing when I came from Mississippi before the war. A man needed a wife and there weren’t any white women. Besides, it gave you allies with a tribe, which could come in real handy for keeping your scalp. I had a Snake wife first. Pretty thing she was, but she died—cholera—and I didn’t have the heart for it for a while. Then, up in Montana after the war, I took Rose as my wife. But things were changing fast. Whites were coming in. When I came here, I wanted to build something to be real proud of. To have a place the greatest men back East could look at and think ‘I wish I was Gordon Wood.’ So I left her in Montana, with her people. She died summer before last.”

  Rachel felt a twist in her heart for the unknown Indian woman, left behind for appearances’ sake. Then her thoughts returned to the small bundle at her side, to the life she now held as her most sacred responsibility.

  “If you want us to leave, I will understand, Gordon, but not until the baby’s strong enough—”

  “Leave?” Gordon’s head came up and he scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you feel thi
s isn’t the bargain you made,” she said carefully, “I won’t try to hold you to it. I’ll return to the Circle T, and we’ll go on as before.”

  His eyes went from her face to the baby she held.

  “You give me no cause to break our bargain, Rachel. You told me, and I knew what I signed on for, though I didn’t reckon . . . Well, reckoned or not, what we have is what we have.”

  He sat on the edge of the large bed, taking her hand awkwardly in his. “You’ve done me proud as my wife, Rachel. The boy will be raised as my son, and when I pass on he’ll get everything I have.”

  His gaze shifted to the child, and he touched a tentative finger to the dark fuzz standing out from the small head.

  “None round here knew me before my head turned white, so maybe they’ll think . . .” Gordon shook his head, then added in resignation, “I suppose he has dark eyes, too.”

  “Yes.” Just like his father’s.

  * * * *

  It wasn’t until nearly a week after the weather broke, that a grub-line rider named Mason brought the news to the old Wallace cabin.

  Rachel Terhune Wood had given birth to a boy.

  Mason said he was looking for a better place for the next season, but he clearly considered the Dusaq spread too small to offer opportunities. Still, the food was generous and damn tasty, so he didn’t stint on the grub-line rider’s duty of sharing what news he’d heard in his wanderings.

  Alba watched her brother as he finished the breakfast beefsteak she’d fried, trying not to let him or the traveler see her anxiety. Nick’s usual level expression remained. But she detected tension in the rigid line of his shoulders.

  “Yep, delivered a fine, healthy son to Gordon Wood, by all accounts. A Natchez hand in town said she had a right hard time. For a spell it didn’t figure mother or babe would live out the birthing.”

  “Mr. Mason, did you not say you had a very long journey ahead of you to visit your brother in Miles City?”

  “Yep, I do, ma’am. But I can’t pass up another cup of that fine coffee of yours.” He held out his cup hopefully, and Alba could do nothing but oblige.

  “Thank you, ma’am. So, as I was saying. Doc Prescott was clean down to the Platte and with the cold and all, he didn’t get to Natchez for near a week. When he got back to town, he said the boy was healthy as a horse, but it’d take Mrs. Wood a spell to regain strength. Said it musta been a near-run thing to get that baby born. Mr. Wood is the proudest of papas. Why look at his place, Natchez—got near a dozen bedrooms including the little ‘uns on the third floor, I hear tell. So you know he’s one takes pride in what belongs to him.”

  “Full light,” Davis said in a musing way as he looked out the window. “Day don’t last long this time of year.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” agreed Mason. “I’d best be on my way during what daylight there is. I’m thanking you for your hospitality.”

  “A pleasure to have you, Mr. Mason,” Alba said.

  Nick started to rise, as if to escort the man to the barn for his horse, but Davis beat him to it. “I’ll see Mr. Mason off, Nick. You finish that coffee.”

  Nick held his cup, but made no move to drink from it. He stared at the table and said nothing, until Alba couldn’t take the uneasy silence any longer.

  “What will you do?”

  He didn’t pretend not to know what she meant, but he didn’t answer fully, either.

  “What’s there to do?”

  * * * *

  The night had dipped to its darkest when Alba woke. She knew the hour, not as a clock told it, but as the time when hope, like a fire left to burn low while the world slept, turned coldest and threatened to expire.

  But the cabin was not as cold as it should have been. She heard again the sound that had awakened her. Wrapping a shawl around the shoulders of her nightdress, she went into the other room.

  Neither Davis, sleeping soundly on his pallet, nor the figure in the rocking chair by the stove he’d kept stoked gave any sign of hearing her. It was, Alba realized, the first time she could remember seeing Nick in that chair.

  It made only a faint brushing sound as he tipped it forward, then back, forward, then back, so slowly it barely seemed to move.

  “Hermano?”

  The chair didn’t stop. He didn’t turn.

  “What is it, hermano? What do you think of?”

  “It’s Christmas morning.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, almost awed at the peace, the serenity of this Christmas compared to others she had known. She had prepared special foods for their dinner, and Davis had brought in an armful of pine boughs that scented the room.

  “It will be a wonderful day. But I do not think that is what you think of.”

  Rachel.

  She knew his thought as surely as if he had spoken it. And she felt the pain of it.

  “Weather’s holding mild now, but the freeze’ll come down hard again anytime. This time it won’t let up quick. We could lose a lot of cattle.” He looked at his big, hard-used hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come back.”

  His fingers curled into themselves, forming a hard fist that grasped painful secrets in an unbreakable hold.

  “But I did come back.” Without his raising it, his voice went as hard as his fist. “And I’m not leaving. We’ll keep this spread operating. We’ll feed those cattle. I hoped we could do it with our own hay, but . . . No way around it, we need more.”

  His mind seemed absorbed with that problem, but Alba believed his heart still followed its earlier path.

  Rachel.

  How much he must love this woman—and how painful to not believe in that love. For she feared her brother believed in no love, not even hers.

  He trusted her, he believed in her loyalty and her gratitude. But did he believe, deep in his scarred soul, that she loved him? Or that he loved her?

  In the frosty air, tears traced hotly down her cheeks.

  She had suffered. She had lost much. But not as much as Nick. She had not lost the hope that she could love.

  * * * *

  Rachel sat in the corner of the horsehair sofa, under strict orders from Esther and Gordon not to get up for any reason. They’d drawn up a schedule of when she could be with the guests and when she must rest. She felt like the silver on the sideboard in the dining room—an ornament polished and placed on display.

  Gordon had issued invitations to important people clear to Montana to celebrate New Year’s with them. But it was one of the other invitations Gordon had issued that strained her nerves. Would Nick come?

  “Ah, Mrs. Wood, I’m so pleased to see you.”

  “Mrs. Murchison.” Rachel smiled up at the plain-faced woman. “Please, sit with me. Tell me how you and Mr. Murchison and your boys are faring. It’s been too long.”

  “It has. We’ve had so much work we haven’t been to a social do, not like this, since last year Christmas at the Circle T. With only Henry and Fred keeping the home ranch, it’s not the same.”

  While the woman talked, Rachel’s mind wandered to a Christmas party and a man whose hard mouth stole her breath with the softness of its first kiss. As if her memories had conjured him. Nick Dusaq stood in the parlor’s double doorway.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Wood?” Mrs. Murchison asked.

  “I’m fine.” A young woman with glossy dark hair and large, intelligent eyes stood beside Nick. Gordon made his way to the new arrivals. The young woman stepped forward, and Rachel saw that she had a pronounced limp. “Tell me about the improvements you and Mr. Murchison are making.”

  The woman needed no more prompting. Rachel heard Nick’s low, even voice introduce his sister, and a phrase about being on their way to Hammer Butte.

  “Have a business matter to talk to you about,” he added.

  He couldn’t be aware yet of her and be so unaffected, could he? Gordon, intent on his duties as host, guided the newcomers toward the sofa where she sat in state.

  “Let’s enjoy ourselves first. Th
is is a celebration. You know I have a son, don’t you?”

  Rachel was aware of every detail of that instant. Of the voices, the scent of the lavender Esther has used in the room, the stiff sofa cushion, a quickly hidden flash of concern in the young woman’s eyes. And of Nick’s tautly impassive face.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Here’s the one you should be congratulating,” Gordon said, smiling as he indicated Rachel. “She’s surely the one that did the work, as any woman will be telling you.”

  “Ma’am.” Nick put his hand to the front of his hat and lifted it. As he had the day he’d hired on at the Circle T. Again, she thought how much the movement hid a man’s face—this man’s face.

  “Hello, Nick.” If she sounded strange, no one noted it.

  Least of all Gordon. “You know your old hand’s come back to us a landowner, don’t you? And he brought this lovely young lady of a sister. A real beauty. Alba Dusaq, this is my wife, Rachel Wood.”

  Rachel saw that under her golden skin, the young woman’s cheeks bore a dull blush. She didn’t believe herself a beauty, too conscious clearly of her limp. Her eyes were direct and assessing.

  “Alba Martin, Mrs. Wood,” the other woman corrected with dignity. “I am a widow.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The words hid a truth Rachel could never speak. She had wanted to know Nick’s sister. Had wanted, perhaps, to find a kinship in caring for him. Now, there would be none of that.

  After Mrs. Murchison, who cheerfully said she remembered Nick, was introduced, Rachel asked, without quite looking at Nick, “How is Davis?”

  “Fine. Went ahead to Hammer Butte.”

  “Mr. Andresson asked,” added Alba Martin, smoothing over her brother’s brusqueness, “that we extend to you his good wishes. He speaks of you most highly.”

  Rachel summoned up a smile. “Thank you. I hope you will give him my best wishes, as well.”

  “Well,” Gordon said, “let me introduce you folks around. That is, unless you’d like me to help you to your room, Rachel?”

  He rested a hand on her shoulder, and Rachel caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. But if it came from Nick, he masked it immediately. No emotion showed in his dark, polished eyes.