Twice Blessed

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Emma!” The man’s shout sounded desperate. “Please open up! We need your help!”

  Muffled weeping ripped Emma from her terror. Someone was sobbing with heart-wrenching grief. A child! Sean? She glanced up the stairs, then realized the sound came from the front porch.

  She ran to the door and threw it open. Lifting the lamp, she looked out into the night. “Noah!”

  “We need your help.”

  “We?” She pulled her gaze from him to see a dark-haired child next to him, clinging to his trousers and crying. Both of them were drenched from the rain. He carried something wrapped in a blanket in his arms. Another child?

  Throwing the door open as far as it would go, she called, “Come in, come in.”

  “Thank you.” His voice rumbled oddly about her parlor.

  She was shocked to realize that, except for Reverend Faulkner, she could not recall the last time a man had come to her house. Shaking that irrelevant thought from her head, she drew the child—a little girl, she noted—in and closed the door. On the stairs, Sean was gripping the banister, his mouth as wide as his eyes.

  “Is here all right?” Noah asked, pointing to the bare floor in front of the parlor stove.

  “All right for what?” Emma set the lamp back on the table and blinked as its glare shimmered on his black silk vest and white shirt, which were newer than what he had worn when she saw him at the store.

  “For you to check him over and see if you can help.” He squatted, putting the blanket and what was wrapped in it on the floor. Water pooled around him.

  The little girl tugged on Emma’s coverlet and whispered, “He’s hurt. He’s hurt bad. Can you make him all better?” Luminous tears filled her brown eyes.

  Emma was not sure which one to respond to first. She flinched when she heard a yip and a low growl. A dog? Butch was sleeping in the barn. She stared at the blanket. Noah Sawyer was carrying a dog into her house in the middle of the night? What was this all about? She wanted to ask, but silenced her curiosity. Her questions might lead him to ask some of his own.

  “Emma, please!” He grasped her arm and pulled her closer to the dog. “I’ve been told you have a way with animals. Can you help Fuzzball?”

  “Fuzzball?” She knelt beside him.

  He did not look at her. “I know it’s a foolish name for a dog, but Belinda chose it.” He lowered his voice beneath the little girl’s weeping. “Can you help him?”

  Emma reached toward the small, brown dog. It could not be more than a pup. “Shh,” she said. “Good Fuzzball.”

  The dog snapped at her and growled weakly.

  Noah bent forward to calm the dog. “She’s going to help you, Fuzzball.” He cleared his throat, looking abashed to be caught talking to a dog as if it were a child. “Sorry, Emma. He doesn’t understand.”

  “Of course not. It’s all right. I get cranky when I’m not feeling my best, too, as you know.”

  “I guess I do.” He met her eyes and gave her a swift smile.

  She looked away from the naked honesty on his face. It made her uncomfortable. When he pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear, she gasped. Surprise burst into his eyes, and he jerked back. He stared at his hand, clearly unable to believe he had done something so familiar.

  “Just hold Fuzzball while I check him,” she said, hating that her voice quivered. She did not want her breath to grow frayed at the touch of this man, who was still very much a stranger. She gritted her teeth to keep her question steady. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s been shot.”

  Her fingers froze on the rough blanket as she stared down at the blood soaking through it from the dog’s right hind leg. Slowly she raised her gaze to meet Noah’s eyes, which were as brown as the pup’s, but now were filled with a fury that warned he would be a fierce enemy.

  “Shot?” she asked. “Who shot him?”

  His mouth worked before he asked, “Will you help him before we go into all that? If he dies—” He glanced over his shoulder. “If something happens to him, Belinda will be heartbroken.”

  Emma nodded. “Hold him while I check him.” Without looking up, she asked, “Sean, will you get some towels so they can dry off?”

  “Yes, Miss Delancy.” He ran back up the stairs.

  “Sean?” repeated Noah, grasping her hand as she reached past him to push Cleo’s nose away from the dog before the cat created more problems. “What’s that lad doing here?”

  “Noah, can’t everything else wait until I’ve had a chance to tend to your dog?” She twisted her hand out of his loose grip.

  He nodded with reluctance, but his mouth remained in a tight frown.

  Emma bent to look at the dog so she would not remind Noah that he should not come to her house begging a favor and then sound irritated because she had opened her home to someone else in need. Nor should he touch her so frequently. It unsettled her far too much.

  When he cradled the dog’s head in his hands, she could not help noticing how gentle they were. His fingers were long and tapered, like an artist’s, but possessed that gentle strength. Something had stained them, outlining every thread etched into his palm.

  Emma told herself to concentrate on the dog, not Noah’s hands. She quickly discovered the bullet had only nicked the dog’s leg.

  “Keep him still, Noah.” She stood.

  “Where are you going? If you need something from the store, I can get it for you.”

  “No need to go to the store. I’ve got some medicine and bandaging in the kitchen.”

  She gathered what she needed and came back into the parlor. She cooed soothing sounds as she knelt again. Fuzzball relaxed beneath her touch. It was true. She did have a way with animals, for she had learned to tend them at her father’s side on their farm in Missouri before they moved to Kansas. He had supplemented his storekeeping income by taking care of his neighbors’ beasts when they ailed.

  Hearing sobs behind her, she said, “Noah, I can tend to Fuzzball alone. You might want to see to your young companion.”

  “Companion? Oh, Belinda.” He came to his feet and crossed the room to where the little girl was sitting in the rocker by the stairs.

  As he comforted the little girl who must be his daughter, Emma washed the dog’s wound and bandaged it. She doubted if the wrapping would stay on long, for Fuzzball would want to tend to it himself as soon as he was able. And that was the best kind of healing, her father had taught. People should let their beasts do what they could to heal themselves.

  But a touch of laudanum would keep Fuzzball from chewing off the bandage tonight. She watched as the dog licked the diluted medicine eagerly. When he rested his head on his front paws and began to snore lightly, she washed her hands.

  Tending to the dog had been the simple part, she knew when she stood again. Noah was scowling at Sean, who was coming down the stairs. The boy glared back at him, his rounded chin jutting out like a foolish prizefighter’s.

  It was scant comfort that she probably would not have to worry about the nightmare returning tonight. She doubted if she would get any more sleep during what was sure to be a long night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emma smiled at the little girl, who was still wiping tears off her pudgy cheeks. The child was sitting on the sofa, her short legs in damp stockings sticking straight out past the cushions. Emma guessed the little girl was no more than five years old. One black braid flowed down her back, and she twisted the other in her fingers.

  Gently Emma took her hands and bent so her eyes were level with the child’s. “Your name is Belinda, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered. “How is Fuzzball? Is he going to die?”

  “Fuzzball is going to be fine, but you’ll have to let him rest a lot in the next two or three weeks. He has to get better slowly.”

  “He isn’t going to die then, is he?”

  She smiled her thanks to Sean as he held out two towels. Handing one to Noah, she dropped the other one on Belinda’s head. T
he little girl abruptly giggled.

  Noah’s stern face eased, and Emma could not mistake the love he had for this child. Was that the reason he had come all the way from his farm in the middle of a rainy night to find help for the dog? His gaze turned toward her. His eyes narrowed. She wanted to ask him if he was distressed because she had witnessed his feelings for his child. That would only start another argument, and she was too tired for that tonight.

  “No, Belinda, he isn’t going to die,” she said as she rubbed the child’s wet hair gently. “He shall be right as rain in no time.”

  “Good, because I don’t want Papa to have to shoot that mean old Mr. Murray.”

  “Belinda!” Noah said, embarrassment filling his voice. “She’s just distressed, Emma. She doesn’t mean what she’s saying.”

  Emma straightened and smiled. Handing the damp towel to Sean, she thanked him before saying, “I understand. If …”

  Her smile fell away before Noah’s candid stare. It reminded her that she was wearing nothing but her nightdress. Its muslin did more to emphasize her curves than to hide them. A grin edged along his lips, and his eyes began to twinkle as they had when he had leaned toward her behind the counter in the store. A flush swept over her, warming her and making her aware of every inch of herself … and him. She had thought he was about to kiss her then. And now?

  When he took a step toward her, she edged back. She did not know this man well, but surely he would not do anything inappropriate in front of his own child. Would he? She knew how poor a judge of character she was. Her kind heart had betrayed her before.

  He reached out, and she struggled not to scream. She was not sure who, other than the children, would hear her in the middle of the night.

  “Allow me, Emma,” he said with a chuckle.

  Heat slapped her face as he settled the coverlet on her shoulders as if it were a fine silk cloak. As his fingers smoothed the layers of fabric along her shoulders, his breath coursed through her hair, grazing her cheek in an invitation she doubted he intended.

  She had not realized he was so tall until they stood here in her cozy house. His chin could rest on the top of her head, but as he bent toward her, she could see nothing but those earth-brown eyes.

  “Thank you, Noah.” She looked at the little girl, who was staring down at her dog. There had been much talk at the store about a widower and his child who had moved onto the farm a few weeks ago. She wondered why no one had mentioned how good looking Noah was. Maybe because he had infuriated all his neighbors already.

  He glanced at the dog. “I appreciate your taking care of this emergency for us in the middle of the night. When Fuzzball came home all bloody, I wasn’t sure who could help. I remembered someone talking about your tending to one of their animals.”

  “How did Fuzzball—” She smiled, as he did, when she spoke the silly name. “How did he get shot? Belinda said something about Mr. Murray. Do you—”

  “Can we talk somewhere without little ears listening to every word?”

  As he waited for Emma’s answer, Noah glanced at Belinda, who was perched on the sofa, a three-colored calico cat curled up against her. Her head was bobbing as she fought to stay awake. He did not want to chance her hearing what he had to say, even when she was half asleep.

  Beside her, Sean O’Dell was curled up, asleep. Noah sighed. Apparently Emma had tamed the wild youngster already. He hoped so. Belinda did not need to be learning anything from one of those kids who had been placed out around the village.

  Looking back at Belinda, he resisted the temptation to take one of the embroidered pillows and set it behind her. It was not easy being both mother and father to this child, because she kept him on his toes with her many questions and her delightful insights into the commonplace. Although she had been in his life so few years, he could not imagine what his days would be like without her in them to fill each one with joy.

  “Alone?” Emma asked.

  At the edge to her question, he turned back to Emma. He could not blame her for getting the wrong impression. Their last meeting had not been under the best of circumstances. He had to admit he had not gotten the wrong impression about her. He smiled as he noted how tightly she held the blanket closed around her. Too late, he wanted to tell her, for the image of her in that light pink nightdress that matched the color in her cheeks was seared into his mind. With her tawny hair curling around her neck and cascading in a golden river down her back, she looked like an angel, even as she put the most devilish thoughts into his mind. He wanted to reassure her he had not used a wounded dog and a heartsick child as a way to get into a lady’s house so he could ravish her.

  But damn, she was ravishing!

  “Noah?”

  The impatience in her voice freed him from the fantasy that, if she had guessed what he was thinking, would have gained him a well-deserved slap. “Yes, Emma.” He cleared his throat. “May we speak privately?”

  “I have coffee left over from supper in the kitchen. It should still be hot. If not, I’ll put some more water on.”

  As well as every light, he thought as he nodded and followed her out into the small room beyond where the dog slept in front of the stove. She was showing good sense. Something he should have as well, although it would be so much easier to be sensible if she were not still draped in that blanket which brought out the green in her eyes and the warm flush of her lips.

  “Please sit down,” she said as she took the pot off the warming shelf on the large black stove. It nearly filled the small room.

  Open shelves overflowing with boxes and dishes were set on all the walls except by the stove and where the window over a dry sink offered a view of the rain. He noticed no two plates on the shelves were the same color and wondered how she had amassed such an odd collection. A door was almost hidden in the shadows. He noticed it only because the wind rattled it. With the lantern overhead cascading light down upon the bright yellow oilcloth on the table, it was a cozy room.

  Noah pulled out one of the chairs and frowned as it wobbled. “Is it the floor or the chair that’s uneven?”

  She smiled. “I suspect both are.” Her smile vanished when he tipped up the chair to examine it. “What are you doing?”

  “This chair has a loose rung. A bit of glue and a couple of small nails will make it steady again.”

  “You sound as if you know quite a bit about chairs.”

  Turning the chair upright, he sat on it cautiously. It would hold him … for now. “I need to know more than a bit about chairs and tables and bedsteads. I make furniture.”

  “But you bought the Collis farm.”

  He took the cup she held out to him. “It has a good woodlot. The maple and birch will be enough to keep me in wood for several years. I’m hoping there’s still plenty of cedar left in there.” Taking a sip of the coffee as she sat across from him, he smiled. “You brew a strong cup.”

  “It wasn’t so strong earlier. If you’d like me to make a fresh pot—”

  When he put his hand on her arm to keep her from jumping to her feet, he was astonished at the flash in her eyes. He had seen it before, but not on her face. Fear. He pulled his hand back.

  “The coffee is fine,” he said, although a dozen questions battered at his lips. His motion had been nothing more than polite, but her fingers quivered as she lifted her cup. Putting his own on the table, he added, “I want to thank you again for opening your door to us at this hour and for taking care of Fuzzball, Emma.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” Emma drew in a deep, steadying breath. She was acting as frightened as a child and with just as little reason. “In Haven, we try to be friendly neighbors.”

  “So you’ve told me.” He swirled the coffee about in his cup. His expression became hard again. “Too bad I haven’t seen much sign of that.”

  She dampened her lips. “What did you want to tell me privately?”

  “Do you know Leo Murray who has the farm next to mine?”

  “Of course
.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  She laughed without humor. “A lot.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “I don’t like to speak ill of people—”

  “But there isn’t much good you can say about that crotchety old man.”

  She rested her elbows on the table and let the steam from her cup billow into her face. Nightmares and night callers. She was going to be useless tomorrow. Fortunately it was Sunday, so she needed to worry only about not falling asleep at church. Reverend Faulkner might understand, but others would not. She tried to concentrate on what her unexpected guest was saying, but it was difficult when she wanted so desperately to yawn.

  “You believe Mr. Murray shot your dog?” she asked, clenching her teeth so the yawn could not escape.

  “I know he shot Fuzzball.”

  “But why?” She gripped her cup and frowned. “Mr. Murray is very protective of his animals. Did you let your dog get into his sheep?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Then he had a right to scare your dog away.”

  “By shooting it?” He stood and drained his cup. Setting it in the dry sink, he shook his head. “There are other ways to keep a dog from chasing sheep.”

  Emma sighed. “Look, Noah, you’re new here, and I suspect you’re new to farming.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Just a guess, from your reaction to Mr. Murray’s warnings. Did you used to live in a city?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  She frowned, unable to guess why he would be so reluctant to answer such a harmless question. She was tempted to tell him she was probably the only one in Haven who would not pry into someone else’s secrets. Nobody else would be as circumspect. Small town folks loved gossip.

  “Are there lots of rules out here in the country I should know about?” he asked, leaning back on the dry sink.

  She wished he had remained sitting. With the table between them, she could pretend not to notice the brawny muscles his wet shirt was unable to hide. He was as roughly hewn as the wood he worked with. Again she found herself staring at his hands. Only a man who loved his work would work hard enough to raise those calluses.