“They’re willing to pay you handsomely.” Kohlman quoted the sum of money, and Kathryn felt her eyes grow wide. “And they would pay you in cash, Mrs. Jennings. You’d receive the funds by week’s end.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a document. “You’d be wise to seriously consider their offer.”
Kathryn reached for the document even as a sense of warning stole through her. She scanned the pages of tiny print, little of it registering. Then her eyes locked on a phrase. “What does this mean? ‘Right to dam and store,’ ” she read aloud. “‘The proprietary owner shall retain rights to all surface water and groundwater, and shall reserve the right to dam and store said watercourse. . . .”’ She let her voice trail off as the silent question hung between them.
Kohlman focused on something past her shoulder. “All of that simply means that the new owner will have the same rights your husband possessed.”
“But my husband never dammed the creek or tried to stop the flow of the stream into town. He took what he had a right to, only what he needed for the ranch and our livelihood. The water in Fountain Creek also belongs to the people of Willow Springs, doesn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “Doesn’t it, Mr. Kohlman?”
Kathryn’s thoughts immediately went to the gate rider who had drowned and what Matthew had told her—that someone had been tampering with the head gates on the creek. She stared at the paper in her hand. Water was a precious resource in this arid climate, and it was scarce at times. Three years ago they’d suffered a drought so devastating that the territory’s supply of breadstuffs, vegetables, and feed for stock had been wiped out. She could sell the water rights and keep her land, but what would she have? What legacy could she give Larson’s only child? Land without water. That was worth nothing. Fountain Creek was her property’s life source, and the life source for Willow Springs. This town wouldn’t survive without it.
Suddenly the document felt like a coiled snake in her hand. She dropped it on Kohlman’s desk and backed away.
He eyed her, his smile intact but all other signs of graciousness gone. “Mrs. Jennings, don’t let the specifics of the contract sway you. Your responsibility is to yourself and to your child. You owe your child the safety and security this agreement will provide. And you won’t find another buyer who will match this price, I assure you.”
“I’m not looking for a buyer, sir. As I told you before, this land, this water, is not for sale. I mean to keep them both.”
Kohlman leaned back in his chair and laced his thick fingers across the broad expanse of his middle. “And just how do you aim to do that, Mrs. Jennings?”
Her defenses rose at his caustic tone. “I don’t know exactly. But I do know I will not sell.” She’d spoken the last words softly, but with quiet resolve.
His face hardened. “Very well. Was there something else you needed to see me about today?”
As if he would be willing to help her now. Kathryn sighed. Best to come right out and say it. “I’m wondering if you could let me know how to get in touch with Mr. MacGregor.”
He leaned forward. “Donlyn MacGregor?”
“Yes, I need to see him for . . . business reasons.”
Kohlman’s mouth took a suggestive turn. “Well, I see . . .”
The high collar of Kathryn’s black dress suddenly felt overly snug. How dare he think . . . “No, sir, I’m certain you do not!”
“Really, Mrs. Jennings, it’s of no concern to me whom you choose to spend your evenings with. After all, you are a young widow . . . though still in mourning,” he added, his leather chair creaking as he rose. “But I can easily see how Mr. MacGregor would be a desirable man to someone of your . . . current position.” He opened his office door and, with a wave of his hand, indicated she was to precede him. “I’ll make known your . . . desire to meet with him.”
“Mr. Kohlman, it’s nothing like that,” she said in a low whisper, hopeful that his assistant sitting within earshot hadn’t overheard. “And I would appreciate your not implying those intentions to Mr. MacGregor.”
Kohlman smiled. “Oh, I won’t imply a thing. I’ll let him do that, Mrs. Jennings. Good day to you.” The door closed with a thud.
By the time Kathryn reached Myrtle’s, anxiety knotted her stomach and her jaw ached from biting back the responses she wanted to hurl in Harold Kohlman’s face. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for her, she’d thought of them all after the fact.
At closing time she was in no better mood. Since she’d been late to work, Kathryn offered to clean the kitchen and lock up. Not long after bolting the door behind Myrtle, Kathryn heard a tap on the front window and threw down her dishrag. Could people not read the CLOSED sign? She strode to the front.
Silhouetted by the coal-lit street lamps, Matthew Taylor’s broad-shouldered stance was instantly recognizable. The bell jangled when she opened the door.
“Am I late for dinner?” A tentative smile tugged the corners of his mouth.
The humor in his voice worked to thaw Kathryn’s anger, and something inside her eased. “Only by about two hours.”
“Well, that being the case . . . would you allow me to walk you home when you’re done?”
She hesitated. “It’ll still be a while. I have work left to do.”
“Not a problem. I’ll wait out here.”
Kathryn finished, and true to his word, Matthew Taylor sat on the front steps waiting for her. An easy smile stretched his face as he stood and offered his arm. Kathryn slipped her hand through. Walking beside him, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to have someone watching over her.
“Hard day?”
She glanced up at him. “How could you tell?”
“When you answered the door, I nearly ran.”
Kathryn winced playfully, then smiled. “Was it that noticeable?”
He shrugged and covered her hand on his arm. They walked in silence down the empty boardwalk for a moment. “I talked to the sheriff earlier. They sent the samples of the carcasses to Denver for testing and got the results back today. Somebody poisoned your cattle, that’s for sure. But they still don’t know with what.”
“So we really don’t know any more than we did before.” She briefly considered telling him about Donlyn MacGregor’s offer to help but decided against it. Matthew would encourage her not to do it, but Matthew didn’t share her passion for keeping the land. And it was unlikely he would understand it.
His grip on her hand tightened. “No, I’m sorry we don’t know anything more.”
Hearing the underlying guilt in his voice, Kathryn stopped. “Mr. Taylor, as I told you before, none of this was your fault. And I don’t blame you for any of it. I wish I could make you see that.”
“And I wish I could make you see how much I care for you, Kathryn. How much I want to help you through this, if you’d only let me.”
He leaned closer, and Kathryn instinctively stepped back. Suddenly all she could picture was being with Larson that last night, of him holding her in their bed, touching her, kissing her. And she didn’t want to mar that memory with another man’s kiss, however good or sincere that man might be.
“I’m sorry, Matthew. I can’t.”
“Larson is gone, Kathryn.” His voice was soft, and he didn’t move to close distance between them.
His statement sounded more like a plea than a fact, and tears sprang to her eyes. “I know that,” she whispered, looking away.
“Do you?” He stepped closer and brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away her tears. “Your husband was a good man, but he’s not here to take care of you anymore. To take care of his child.”
At his mention of the child, she looked up.
“I know the baby is his, Kathryn. But I also know what some people are saying.”
She frowned.
“Willow Springs is a good-sized town, but it’s small when it comes to this kind of thing. People talk; they speculate. Some folks are saying the baby’s mine. Some are saying it’s a result of yo
u staying at the brothel.”
“But how did you know about that, Matthew? I was only there for—”
“Word gets around, Kathryn. Some of the ranch hands saw you coming and going from there.”
She tried to look away, but he gently turned her face back. His thumb traced her chin, and Kathryn felt an involuntary shiver pass through her.
“Like I said, some of the ranch hands are saying the child is mine, and I haven’t corrected them because what others are saying is far worse. People here don’t know you, and since you stayed at that brothel and—” his lips firmed—“you’ve been seen in town with that whore, they’re saying the child is a—”
She held up a hand. “I understand what you’re saying. You don’t have to repeat the rumors.”
“You’re living in the back of a men’s store, sleeping on a cot. I can give you better than that, Kathryn. Let me try.”
Looking into Matthew’s warm brown eyes and feeling her fatherless child move within her, it would have been easy to convince herself to give him a chance. Matthew was indeed a good man. Larson’s having employed him for six plus years affirmed that, and Larson’s trust hadn’t been easily earned. “I appreciate what you’re offering me, Matthew, but . . . I still feel Larson with me. In here,” she whispered, laying a hand over her heart, willing him to understand. “It’s like he’s not really dead.”
“But he is dead, Kathryn. You held his coat. You saw his body. So did I. He’s not coming back.”
Her throat tightened. “I know that. But just because I’ve buried my husband doesn’t mean I’m ready to bury what we were together, the life we shared. To completely forget him.”
“I’m not asking you to forget him. I’m only asking you to consider what’s best for you, for your child. Some folks are saying—”
“Why should I care about what people are saying behind my back! Perhaps if you’d correct their assumptions instead of remaining silent on the matter, they’d—” She stopped short, hearing the accusation that had crept into her tone. “Oh, Matthew, I’m sorry.” She let out a breath. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I’m simply not ready for this yet. I may never be.”
Kathryn saw the emotion—the love—in his eyes, but it was a love she could not return. Not now anyway. She also saw something that ran deeper—a patience that said he understood. He pulled her against him, and Kathryn didn’t fight against his embrace.
How could the strength of Matthew Taylor’s arms around her feel so good when she still loved her husband? It felt like a betrayal somehow.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered against her ear, “I’ll be here.”
She felt his kiss on her forehead and nodded, doubting she ever would be.
Having witnessed his own funeral and seen his wife betray him in a way he’d never imagined, Larson spent the next two weeks looking for her. With no money for food, he took a job mucking out stables at a small ranch on the edge of town. It was mindless work, which suited him fine because his every thought was centered on one thing: finding Kathryn again.
Willow Springs wasn’t that big, but he hesitated to draw more attention to himself by asking a lot of questions. After glimpsing his face, people responded with looks of either disgust or shock, then acted like he wasn’t there. Jake’s reaction at seeing him still stung, and remembering the way Kathryn had allowed Taylor to touch her that afternoon by the graveside only deepened his disappointment and uncertainty.
Every time Larson’s thoughts returned to the child in her womb, not of his doing, his throat would close tight. How could she have put him aside so quickly?
But still he searched. Patience had never been a virtue he possessed, but it would seem he was destined to learn it now. Each day, after finishing his chores at Johnson’s ranch, he walked the alleys of town, keeping an eye on the respectable hotels and boardinghouses from one end of Willow Springs to the other, hoping to see her.
Then late one evening, weary from work and losing heart, he headed back to the ranch. A bell jangled on the opposite side of the street and, following the noise, Larson looked over. And froze.
It was dark, but he recognized her instantly. A mixture of longing and bitterness streaked through him. He pressed back into the shadows of the empty boardwalk.
Kathryn closed the door to the eatery, checked the lock, then crossed the street. His pulse raced as she walked toward him. And in that instant, he realized he wasn’t ready for this yet. He wasn’t ready for her to see him like this. Oh, God, no . . . He held his breath as she climbed the stairs and turned, never looking in his direction. He waited, then followed at a distance.
She quickened her steps along the darkened boardwalk, a bag of some sort clutched in her hand. Larson worked to maintain her pace, not using the staff in his hand for fear she might hear him and turn. She passed the well-lit boardinghouse where he’d first thought she might be staying, then continued past the mercantile and livery. Where was she going? They were nearing the edge of town. Finally, she disappeared into an alleyway between two run-down buildings on a side street, and for an instant, Larson felt concern for her safety.
Then he rounded the corner and saw her enter a simple two-story clapboard building through the back door. Staring at the building, he took a step back.
Instinctively, he knew what the place was.
The furrowed skin on his back tingled in sickening recognition even as his concern for Kathryn cooled.
He counted ten narrow windows on the second floor and couldn’t help but think of each room in terms of time and money. Absently, he wondered which one was Kathryn’s. But his heart rejected the thought even as the harsh truth glared back at him. No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. . . . Not his Kathryn.
Glad for the building at his back, Larson leaned against it and slid to the ground, reliving the last five months of his life. He thought he’d come to understand what God had been doing all that time—making him into the man He wanted him to be. The man he needed, and wanted, to be for Kathryn.
The smell of liquor assaulted him and his stomach churned. Raucous noises and sounds from another life, long dead to him, resurrected themselves and cloaked him like a heavy shroud. He knelt in the dirt.
All the nights he’d dreamed of her, living only to be with her again. He hadn’t thought he could tolerate more pain than his physical wounds had inflicted, but this pain cut deeper to a tender place he hadn’t even been aware existed. And still one breath followed another and his heart continued to beat. The weeks and months he’d endured excruciating pain, then the slow healing of his body and spirit, for what? Why had God allowed him to survive all that only to return and face a different kind of death? One proving even more painful.
He cursed Kathryn for her unfaithfulness. And while the words still tainted his lips, a swift stab of conviction penetrated his chest.
Bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.
Larson went completely still. Prickles rose on his neck and back at the gentle thunder inside him. Was this the still, small voice Isaiah and Abby had taught him to listen for? His breath came heavy. His heart raced. He closed his eyes, frightened of the response invading the anger in his heart. His lips moved but nothing came out at first. “But, Lord, Adam said that about a wife who was faithful.” Eve hadn’t given herself to another man. Or men.
The vivid images filling his mind twisted his gut—the things he’d seen as a boy, that he’d tried to block out and forget. Lord, she scorned me. Kathryn sold herself and traded my love for a pittance.
For an instant, Larson considered blaming God for his circumstance. After all, God was the one who had allowed him to live. But having blamed Him before, Larson knew it wouldn’t change anything. He covered his face with his hands.
After all these years, the Lord had finally begun to soften his stubborn heart. What did it matter now if Kathryn didn’t want it?
Larson awakened from a restless sleep. He barely remembered walking back to the f
arm last night and hadn’t slept in the bunkhouse with the other hands. Not in the mood for company and needing time to take in what he’d witnessed, he’d chosen the barn loft instead. He sat slowly and stretched, and the weight of last night’s discovery hit him all over again.
Elbows resting on his knees, he rubbed his hands over his face and slowly let out his breath, feeling his last bit of hope being siphoned away by Kathryn’s deceitfulness. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would’ve believed it. And it struck him then that, even with the layer of distrust that had shadowed their years together, nothing had prepared him for this.
Muscles in his right thigh resisted the chill morning air and movement, and he massaged them until the tightness eased. Wincing, he flexed the waxy ribboned flesh of his hands until they too bent to his command.
As the pewter sky gradually lightened to a pale blue, he rushed through his chores, not knowing what he was going to do when he saw Kathryn again but knowing that he had to see her, even at a distance. Even after all he knew.
It was almost noon by the time he made it into town. He waited down the street and watched the brothel, unable to make himself walk up to the door. The setting looked oddly tranquil, so different from last night, which was no surprise for this time of day. After a while, on a hunch, he shadowed his path from the previous evening back to Myrtle’s Cookery, the homey-looking eating establishment where he’d first seen Kathryn.
From a bench across the street, he kept vigil on the people walking up and down the boardwalk, and it wasn’t long before the object of his search appeared.
Kathryn was still a good distance off, on the other side of the street, but seeing the black dress she wore, the respectable shroud of a mourning widow, Larson felt a flush of anger. She carried herself with such quiet dignity. His unexpected anger frightened him. Never would he have thought himself capable of wishing his wife harm. Seeing her again, though, discovering where she was living and what she was doing, wreaked havoc with his emotions.
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