by Loree Lough
She blinked, and the first hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’m afraid you’re too late for that.” Still standing in the circle of his embrace, she brightened a little more, and added, “There’s peach cobbler, though….”
He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but without a second thought, Chance pressed a kiss against her lips.
And much to his delight, Bess returned it.
Chapter Five
Almost from the moment he brought Matt home after the accident, Chance spent a lot more time in the house than the rest of the hired hands. Though all of the men took evening meals at the Beckleys’ dining room table and felt welcome in the parlor or lounging in the comfortable rockers on the front porch, none seemed so much a part of the family as Chance.
It had all started days after surgery, with Matt unable to get out of bed, even to bathe. Bess had tried to bustle in to get the job done, as she’d been doing since the boys were toddlers. Chance, who’d gone upstairs for his evening visit with Matt, had just stepped up to the bedroom door when the confrontation began….
“You can just put your smelly ol’ bar of soap right back where you got it,” the boy insisted, tugging up his blanket. “I’m fourteen years old, and I won’t have my sister washin’ where the sun don’t shine!”
And Bess had rolled her eyes. “Well, you can’t go the whole eight weeks of your recuperation without a proper bath!”
“I’d rather stink like one of Mister Nick’s hogs than have you see me in my birthday suit.”
Bess clucked her tongue and chuckled. “Why, that’s just plain silly, Matt. I used to change your diapers and—“
He narrowed his eyes and scowled. “That’s ‘cause I was a baby and couldn’t defend myself. I’m nearly a man now, and—“
“Matthew, the longer you argue with me, the colder this water is getting,” she scolded, thumping the rim of her washpan.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s cold or hot, ‘cause you’re not bathin’ me with it!” Matt insisted, his tone changing from big-boy bluster to little-boy whine.
She put the washpan on the bedside table and propped her fists on her hips. “There will be a bath, young man, and if—“
“If Matt will let me,” Chance interrupted, leaning on the doorframe, “I’ll be glad to help him clean up.”
She’d looked at him with some surprise. “You?”
Matt, grinning with relief, said, “Yeah! Chance can do it!”
“But….”
“Bess, you’ve seen me rub down a horse after a hard day’s ride, and what smells worse than horse sweat?”
Bess eyed Matthew slyly and crinkled her nose. “My little brother, that’s what,” she answered, and neatly side-stepped the pillow Matt feebly tossed at her.
Now, remembering the scene, Bess grinned. Chance always seemed to show up, like the white knight in fairy tales, just in the nick of time. He’d bathed Matt that night, and every night afterward until the boy’s arm healed enough to do the job himself.
Bess also remembered that when Matt finally seemed ready and able to begin the exercises Doc had prescribed to get his leg back into shape, it had been Chance’s strong shoulder the boy leaned on. When the doctor said the time had come for Matt to get some fresh air, it was Chance who fashioned crude wooden crutches and taught the boy to use them, then walked slowly, patiently alongside as Matt hobbled across the lawn. Then, when the boy seemed bored out of his skull from having nothing more physical than walking to do, it was Chance who taught him to play chess.
The men teased Chance mercilessly, their mocking falsettos calling him “Our hero!” But the serious tone behind their good-natured wise-cracks rang true. Though she never told him so, he was her hero. Bess thanked God every morning and every night for him, for he’d saved Matt’s life. And, he’d been the first person since Mary to offer her a moment of compassion or an instant of comfort…or to realize she needed either.
Bess thanked God for something else, too: Finally, the boys had a real man they could look up to!
Not that Micah didn’t love his sons. Bess knew he’d have given his life for any one of his children if need be. But, since Mary’s death, he’d withdrawn from his sons and daughter, physically and emotionally. The man who once showered his family with loving affection now seemed to believe that providing materially for them was enough.
She missed the man he’d been before Mary died. Fun-loving and kind, he’d had strong opinions about everything, and didn’t mind sharing them with anyone who’d listen. Though he shared them in a thundering voice and with animated gestures, he’d never made anyone, not even the object of his opinion, feel afraid on any level.
Bess remembered the week she’d spent at the neighbors when, because of Mrs. Cunningham’s difficult delivery, Mary had volunteered Bess to help with the cleaning and cooking, and to mind the Cunningham’s three children while the new mama recuperated. It saddened Bess to see the youngsters duck and flinch at Mr. Cunningham’s every move, as if they didn’t know when he might have a mind to whack one of them for talking out of turn, making too much noise, or not completing a chore to his satisfaction.
Mary and the children flinched around Micah…but only because they never knew when he might be inspired to tickle or pull them onto his ample lap for a big hug, a noisy, wet kiss, or both! Even as a young girl, Bess had seen the difference between Mr. Cunningham and her pa.
With Mary at his side, Micah had been a man of unbounded faith. Nothing worried or frightened him. Once, when a severe thunderstorm destroyed an entire corn crop, he’s simply shrugged and said, “Well, we can thank the Almighty that we had us a good potato crop this season.” By comparison, just last week, when the skies over Foggy Bottom darkened, he paced from window to window, peering outside and sighing, stroking his grey beard. “What will become of us if those winds flatten the corn?”
Oh, he put on a mighty show for the farm hands, standing tall, strutting like a Bandy rooster, bellowing orders with the sure clear voice of a man in charge. But alone in the manor house, where no one but his daughter could witness his grief and misery, Micah’s voice trembled with doom and gloom.
Bess hoped the burden of grief would one day lift from her father’s shoulders. If only Pa would look around him, she’d tell herself, he’d see he’s surrounded by hundreds of things to be thankful for: He had his own good health. The farm had been productive, even in the worst of times. The boys were healthy—why even Matt’s injuries were healing faster than Doc had predicted!—and Bess had never suffered so much as an ingrown toenail. His employees were honest and hard-working and devoted to their boss. What more could he ask? Bess wondered time and again.
She loved her father. But his behavior these past years had been slowly chipping away at the respect and admiration she’d felt for him while her mother was alive. Most of all, she pitied Matt and Mark, for they needed a father who was a pillar of strength, who could give them security, comfort, and a man they could imitate as they grew from fine strong boys into good decent men.
He hadn’t been there for her, either. Take the night of Matt’s surgery, for example, when she’d been forced to assist Doc Beck and comfort Matt and Mark, and Micah, too. If it hadn’t been for Chance that night….
Bess sighed. She’d stepped into Mary’s shoes quite willingly. After all, Mary hadn’t chosen to leave them. Micah, on the other hand, had chosen to leave them, emotionally. And if the truth be told, his kind of leaving hurt far worse. There wasn’t a blessed thing anyone could do to bring Mary back, but Micah…Micah was alive!
She resented his helplessness. Bess missed her mother, too, yet her father’s grief had forced her, barely twelve at the time, to take on his responsibilities in addition to Mary’s. If Bess had refused to assume those roles, bills would have gone unpaid, fields wouldn’t have been plowed or seeded or harvested….
Many times, it took all the strength and self-control she could muster to keep from telling him, face to
face, exactly what she thought of his self-pitying, hang-dog ways. Ironically, Mary saved him even from that: “Your pa and me, we’re just flesh and bone,” she’d said, “and from time to time, we’ll make mistakes, some of them big ones. When we do, it’ll test your mettle, Bess my love, because that’s when you’ll find it hardest to treat us with respect as our Father commanded.”
Bess sighed deeply and set aside her exasperation toward her pa. Her mother had been right, after all; Bess reminded herself that the Fourth Commandment didn’t say “Honour thy father and thy mother…if they deserve it….”
She’d all but given up hope on Micah.
And then Chance came along.
Bess sat in her window seat and stared into the darkened yard. A wistful smile on her face, she hugged the candle wicked pillow to her chest and sighed. Yes, she’d given ‘I love Chance’ a thought or two, but she’d quickly dismissed the feelings as silly, immature infatuation. Too many people depended on her, needed her, and she had neither the time nor the inclination for romance.
At least, that had been true in the past.
Chance’s kiss had changed all that.
Bess put her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes. Her heart swelled as she remembered the way his mouth lightly grazed her chin, her cheeks, the way his big strong arms wrapped around her and gathered her close, making her feel safe and warm…and womanly.
If a man as handsome and available as Chance had taken a romantic interest in her, why, maybe she wasn’t so plain and unattractive after all! She’d waved away such thoughts in the past, telling herself that the sins of pride and vanity had put them into her head in the first place.
Surrounded by the steady strength of his embrace, he’d told her, without words, that it was all right to need others, at least once in awhile. To take occasionally, instead of always giving. Until now, she’d been the family’s sole source of strength. In all that time, she hadn’t allowed herself to express fear or worry, sadness or grief. How could she cry over typical girlish concerns when it had become her responsibility to be mother, father, and friend to her brothers…and Micah’s confidant and rock as well!
Bess believed that when Chance wrapped her in that sheltering hug, he’d said in his quiet cowboy way that he loved her. Smiling, she remembered the Widow Rennick’s advice, and freely admitted how very ready she was to be loved.
***
Chance was a man who’d spent most of his adult life out of doors, so the long hours he spent under-roof, visiting with Bess and her brothers had been hard for him at first. But each passing hour, he felt more comfortable, until it seemed as natural and normal as breathing…until he couldn’t stay away from the house. Though he’d thoroughly enjoyed playing checkers and chess with Matt and Mark, Chance admitted the real reason he wiled away so many hours in the manor house: Bess.
He thought of her day and night. And that surprised him, because though he’d courted a few women in his years on the run, he’d never felt even the faintest stirrings of emotional involvement toward a one of them. Chance remembered how he’d occasionally donned white shirt and black string tie, and escorted the prim and proper daughters of wealthy ranchers to fancy parties. He’d courted town girls in practically every city he’d visited. Spooned with the flirty girlfriends of other ranch hands. Why, he’d even bedded a few…but only if they’d invited him to, and only with the understanding he’d soon be on his way….
He’d lived on the edge because he believed that someday, he’d die on the edge. Chance saw no reason to steal a woman’s heart, saw even less reason to give his own. Because sooner or later, he’d have to say goodbye.
Or die.
So he resigned himself to life alone. As the years slid by, it became easier to stick to his self-imposed rule of solitude as he watched frail little women turn big strong men into well-trained lap dogs. If a gal set her sights on a trinket or a bauble, he wondered, why didn’t she just come right out and ask for it, instead of pouting and whining until she got what she wanted? If her man did something to rile her, why didn’t she just point-blank tell him what he’d done, instead of punishing him with the silent treatment until the poor fool puzzled it out?
There were scores of questions about life that he’d likely never figure out, but the only thing he did understand about women was that all the way back to the days of Adam and Eve, they’d been troublemakers, liars, users.
At least, that’s what he’d believed…until Bess.
Pretty and petite, she could have used her gender and diminutive size as a shelter from hard work. Instead, she challenged her curvy little body to perform chores that would have given full-bodied men pause. She didn’t flutter her long, thick lashes and giggle to gain attention. Rather, Bess let the importance of what she had to say command the notice it deserved. He’d seen plenty of girls leap onto chair seats or hide behind their boyfriends at the sight of a field mouse. Not Bess! She’d grab a broom or a mop and chase the furry critter outside with a stern warning that if she caught sight of its wooly little behind in her kitchen again, it’d end up flatter than a griddlecake.
She laughed easily and ate heartily. And the only time he’d ever seen her cry had been the night of Matt’s accident. Even then, she’d been embarrassed that he’d witnessed her tears, and apologized profusely for them, as though they’d been a symbol of some great character flaw.
When he pulled her near that night, he’d wanted to say something to soothe her ragged nerves. Wanted to assure her that her brother would be all right. Wanted to promise nothing bad would ever touch her life again, not if he had anything to say about it. But, frustrated by his inability to express what he felt, Chance could only hold her tighter, hoping to let her know with his actions that he’d be there for her any time she needed him. At least until he had to hit the trail again.
Then she’d melted against him, her tears dampening his shirt and moving him as nothing ever had. Before, she’d seemed so strong and secure, so sure of herself. Her moment of vulnerability touched him deeply. That’s why he’d kissed her, he told himself later.
But deep in his heart, the truth lived…and grew: He’d kissed her because it’s what he’d wanted to do since the first time he set eyes on her.
She was a remarkable woman, all right. She’d been mother and father to Matt and Mark. She’d kept Foggy Bottom running, almost single-handedly. She’d done all the womanly chores anyone could have expected of her, plus a few most tried to foist on their menfolk. Beautiful and talented and honest, she’d somehow remained untouched by life’s viciousness.
Bess was sweeter than any woman he’d ever known. She made him feel smart and important, decent and good. He liked the way he felt around her.
Liked the way she felt in his arms, too, because while other women had made him feel virile, he’d never before felt wanted; others had made him feel lust, and Bess made him feel loved. If he didn’t have a death sentence hanging over his head, he’d ask her to marry him, right now!
Hard as it was to admit, it had been a bad idea to take her in his arms, an even bigger mistake to kiss her. Because now that he’d had a taste of what real love could feel like, it would be hard, real hard, to leave it behind.
Chapter Six
Micah ordered Chance to accompany Bess on the ride into Baltimore, despite her insistence that she’d safely made the trip on her own plenty of times. “The bigger that city gets,” Micah said, his voice uncharacteristically stern, “the more dangerous it gets. You’ll take Chance with you or you won’t go at all.”
This glimpse of the old Micah, strong and in-charge, gave Bess such a feeling of hope that she stifled any further protestations.
At first, she seemed content to ride quietly alongside Chance. But less than ten minutes into their five-hour journey, she said, “I really don’t understand Pa’s attitude. I’ve gone to Baltimore dozens of times, all by myself. It’s insulting, that’s what it is, the way he made me take a chaperon along.”
“H
e’s just looking out for you, Bess,” Chance said without taking his eyes from the road. “Can’t say as I blame him. If you were my—“
“Well, I’m not your daughter,” she interrupted.
He looked at her, a wry smile sparkling in his blue eyes. “I was about to say,” he continued calmly, “if you were my woman, you wouldn’t go anywhere alone.”
If you were my woman, he’d said. She liked the sound of that, and grinned. “Why wouldn’t you let me go anywhere alone? Do you see me as a needy, helpless female?”
Chance focused on the team. “Needy and helpless? You?” He chuckled. “Hardly.”
His sideways flattery made her sit up a little straighter, but she decided it was time to change the subject. “Matt’s doing well, don’t you think?”
Chance nodded. “That boy’s bound and determined to be fully mended before the harvest.” His eyes met hers again. “I reckon stubbornness runs in your family.”
She smiled. “I’ll just take that as a compliment, Chance Walker.”
He’d been wearing the name for ten long years, yet he still bristled every time he heard it. If his Uncle Josh had been there at the moment, he’d have beaten him senseless. The man’s lie had cost Chance his home. His freedom. Even his name. He’d been feeling pretty chipper since learning Micah expected him to accompany Bess into Baltimore. Suddenly, a foul mood enveloped him.
Chance wondered what the proper and pretty Miss Bess Beckley would think if he told her he’d been convicted of murder. If he told her a jury had decided he should swing for the crime. If he told her he’d been on the run for ten long years, changing towns like most folks changed socks, always looking over his shoulder for the next U.S. Marshall or the next bounty hunter….
